One Hundred Shards of Glass
by Quillified
Summary: One hundred looks at sugar, spice, and everything nice, and snips, snails, and puppy-dog tails. Rated T for future violence that inevitably occurs when the Girls and Boys are together, just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

1. Freedom

There were few things more satisfying than flying, high in the sky, at the speed of light. To be going so fast the only thing left behind was a trailing streak of color, to be so high up breathing was a little difficult (though she'd never admit it; once she did, she'd have to talk herself into descending, at which point she'd start to think about the project due next month she hadn't even started thinking about, and the mounting pile of laundry in the Professor's room, and a million other things on her to-do list).

Of course, there were times when even flying couldn't take the stress away. Times when the tottering pile of homework was too much even for her, times when the monsters seemed too big, times when _he_ was downright insufferable. The longer he was in town, goading her with his inaction, taunting her with the grades that rivaled hers, the more and more the itch she just couldn't satisfy gnawed behind her eyes. Music couldn't soothe her, Jane Austen couldn't take her away for more than a few minutes before her mind started to wander back to forbidden territory. It was like he was right there, just under her skin where she couldn't reach, every second of every day.

The only thing that worked anymore was being with him. At least when he was right in front of her she had something tangible to attack.

The problem, of course, was that the more time she spent with him, the more that nagging fire burned and boiled her away from the inside out whenever she tried to catch a break. The more she caught him with that stupid superior half-smile, the more she felt his eyes on her, the more she _sensed_ him, the worse it was when they were apart.

The unavoidable truth of the problem was…well, when she was with him…that was the only time she felt truly free. Free from that constant need to be around him and to stomp on him simultaneously, because he was _there_, there for her to argue with and talk to and sometimes just to look at.

There was a sick logic in that, but its sickness didn't make it any less true. If anything…it made him more desirable for that very fact. She was tired of being Blossom, the uptight, prim, proper, stick-in-the-mud, responsible, mature one. She wanted to scream, because she was capable. She wanted to rage and storm and pitch an outright hissy fit, because that's how he made her feel. She wanted to kiss him until he begged for mercy, because that's how badly she wanted to do something completely unexpected, something she _wanted_ and _needed_.

That's how badly he made her want complete and utter freedom.

* * *

A/N: The first of one hundred Powerpuff Girls drabbles, just to get me oriented around the characters. I've never written for them before, so I want to be sure I can do it right. This one is for Blossom, and she's referring to Brick (because I believe in Reds, Blues, and Greens). I heartily blame the wonderful and twice-as-talented-as-I'll-ever-be **sbj** for convincing me to write for this fandom, even though she doesn't know I exist. Craig McCracken is the mad genius behind the Powerpuff Girls TV show and franchise.

You see that nice Reviews button? How do I know if you like it if you don't tell me?


	2. Chapter 2

2. Love

There were exactly five things Buttercup loved (using "love" in its original, purest meaning, not how Bubbles, the resident I-love-you slut, tended to throw it around).

She loved her father. Professor Utonium was, literally, everything to her. He created her, for Pete's sake. That counted for a very big something. He continued to shelter, clothe, and feed her, even after all the crap she put him through on a weekly (okay, maybe daily) basis. He offered advice when she needed it, and other times knew when it was best just to back off and leave her alone (though, admittedly, it had taken him a while to find that sort of instinct). He was goofy and funny and still the best dad she could have ever asked for.

She loved her sisters (technically two things, but for the sake of keeping her list as short as possible she just grouped them together). Sure, she and Blossom had their differences and disagreements, and Bubbles could be downright annoying sometimes, but there was absolutely no one else she would trust to help her out when her back was against a wall (in a literal sense; those stupid monsters were getting stronger). She picked on them sometimes, but woe betide the rotten kid who decided it would be a good idea to do the same (especially those who targeted Bubbles; she was just so _sensitive_ she let every little thing bother her, and Buttercup had had her fair share of listening to Bubbles cry half the night). They were her partners in crime-fighting, her closest friends.

She loved sports. The physicality of them, the challenge they presented, the competition of the whole thing. Since reaching high school she'd done nearly every sport they had to offer (yes, even golf, but only for as long as it took her to figure out she couldn't hit the ball as hard as she could as much as she wanted to and still win). Her heart was in football; there was just something about knocking the other guy to the ground and watching that smirk disappear that made her feel so…_powerful_. The hundreds of adoring fans didn't hurt, either, and neither did the fact that she looked pretty good in gear.

She loved cooking. Sure, it was kind of embarrassing to have this rough-and-tumble reputation and to be, like, Betty freakin' Crocker on the side, but she was good at it, and when she was in the zone she could whip out any recipe she set her mind to. The downside to it was that she'd kind of become a stress baker; when she'd punched as many monsters and villains as she could get her hands on and it still wasn't enough, she turned to the kitchen and churned out sixteen batches of cupcakes (Blossom disapproved, usually, but she wasn't complaining when Buttercup marched the surplus to the homeless shelter of her own accord, was she?). She also found it useful for when Bubbles was in one of her teary moods. All she had to do was make her a pan of brownies and Bubbles managed to work through her problem (and the entire pan) in no time.

She loved _fighting_. Sometimes it just felt _so freakin' good_ to cut loose and sink her fist into something that reacted back, not a punching bag. She had to be careful, of course. Blossom (and Uncle Ben) was fond of saying something like "with great power comes great responsibility", and she agreed to a point. Buttercup knew where the line was when fighting was concerned (not that she didn't toe it occasionally, but only _very_ occasionally). She was fully aware, at least in theory, of just how much damage she could do when she set her mind to it. Or when she lost her mind, rather. Yet, she never felt more at home with the world then when she was kicking some dirtbag in the head and carting him off to prison where he belonged.

Lately, a sixth thing had been trying to ease onto her list. This sixth thing was entirely unwelcome, unsought for, and un-conducive to her healthy state of mind. Not to mention annoying, crude, and a complete pain in the neck (and she'd broken her neck before; Chemical X took almost a week to heal it up, and she'd had to wear that ridiculous neck brace that made her look like Frankenstein…actually, wasn't it _his_ fault in the first place? She couldn't remember anymore, the fights between them were too many). But he was there, inching his way into the number six slot that supposedly didn't exist. She ignored him when she could, laughed at his jokes when she couldn't anymore. He was technically one of her closest friends, though just by looking at their relationship anyone making that assumption would have to stand ten feet back and squint. He just…he _understood_ her, even as he poked and prodded and tried to get a nasty rise out of her. Maybe that's why he was so good at it.

The danger with letting this particular number six onto her list was that…well, he was a Rowdyruff. Her sworn enemy, created to destroy her at any given opportunity. She couldn't trust him. She _shouldn't_ trust him, actually, but there was a thin tendril of it between them. Faint. Miniscule. But there.

Plus, there was just…_something_ about being with him that stirred her up inside. It was stupid of her, but there were times she honestly felt like there was some kind of caged cat inside her chest, pacing and waiting for him to make the first move. Once he did, she'd rip free and then…and then…

And then _nothing_, because it was never going to happen, she had to tell herself firmly. He was a flirt, a notorious one (though "flirt" was probably putting it too mildly; _Boomer_, he was a flirt. Butch was a downright predator). He liked them curvy and he liked them easy; she might have been a little curvy (not that anyone could tell with the clothes she usually wore), but easy was something she'd call herself when Hell froze over, in any sense of the word. She was one of the guys, to him and to everyone.

And yet…and yet…and yet….

She _was_ human (or close to it). She wasn't a complete ice princess; she _did_ need human contact, something warm and strong to hold on to and to hold onto her. Boys were stupid, she knew, and he was the worst, but…sometimes…when he laughed at something she said, or wet-willied her for the fortieth time that day, or just caught her eye right before he did something dumb, there were times when…well…

Times when number six, fully and whole-heartedly, existed.

* * *

A/N: This is for Buttercup. She's harder to write for, in case the meandering of this one didn't give that away. On the whole I'm satisfied with this first attempt, but there's definite room for improvement.

Thoughts? Gimme reviews. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

3. Light

Boomer was always a little unsettled in the sun.

Oh, he liked it fine; it was bright and shiny and warm, but it was like a giant eye, staring right at him. There were things he'd rather not have anyone see, things he wanted to keep hidden, especially from his brothers. In his half-asleep nuttiness he often imagined that the sun could see right through him and told what it found to Brick and Butch for the sole purpose of tormenting him. So what if he went out of his way to save a kitten stranded in the middle of traffic? He didn't want to see the poor thing bleed and die, is all. And he'd crunched a few cars in the process; didn't that count for something?

Whatever. There were times when being evil was too much work. He wasn't even sure if he _was_ evil anymore; sure, he liked a bit of mayhem and vandalism as much as the next guy, but was it too much to ask to not torture small animals?

The sun beat down on him as he sat in the park, casually licking at an ice cream cone the ice cream vendor girl had generously given him (seriously, just given it to him—though the wink he gave her beforehand probably helped, and he had her number written on his palm, not that it would still be there once his ice cream started melting). It was the kind of day that was nice with a breeze, but unbearable without one. When he touched the top of his head, his hair practically burned him. He gave his ice cream another resolute lick as he glared up in the sun's general direction. Stupid sun. Why wouldn't it just leave him alone?

While in the service (and joint custody) of Him, Boomer'd done some pretty unspeakable things in his lifetime. He'd picked teeth out of bits of pulpy gore spread over his face and shirt, he'd twisted necks so violently the head detached like a chicken's, he'd done all kinds of things, some things even Butch hadn't done (but, then, Butch hadn't gone on all of his missions, either). Yeah, he'd killed before, killed actual people. It made him sick to his stomach every time, but he did it because…where else was he going to go, if he didn't? He didn't have a family outside of his brothers and their fem-dad. Nowhere to go, no one to see. Actually, that was an intriguing thought, but the lazy kid in him figured it was easier to stay where he didn't have to forage for a meal.

He also didn't want anyone finding out about his not-so-evil side, especially not his brothers. The beatings would never end if they learned about where he went every Saturday night (the park, to feed the ducks), or what really happened to the birdhouse he made in Shop (in the forest to house a nice little family of robins), or where the assorted sports balls Butch kept destroying wound up (patched up and at the animal shelter for the cats and dogs to play with). See, that's what was great about animals. They didn't judge, they just took him as he was. That was one of his special gifts, but Brick didn't know about it. It couldn't help him in a battle situation, so why would he bother? Boomer's wisecracks didn't help much, either, but Brick tolerated his jokes and wrote them off as part of his weirdness.

So what if it cost him some evil points? Everybody had a light side, didn't they? Boomer's was just bigger than either of his brothers'. So long as it stayed out of sight, he could keep it.

* * *

A/N: Ah, Boomer. The snips. :D Seriously, the meandering should stop as soon as I get more into the groove of these characters. I quite like how Boomer turned out, actually. It's a fine line trying to balance his nearly-niceness with his mostly-evilness, but I think I drew a pretty good one here. Like I keep saying, this isn't perfect, but it's practice, and you know what they say...

I likes reviews, yesh I do...:D


	4. Chapter 4

4. Dark

Bubbles still slept with a night light. It wasn't a force of habit, like Blossom said, or a deliberately annoying act, like Buttercup thought. She kept it because she was still honestly terrified of the dark.

It was okay when she was asleep; her dreams were usually full of sunshine and puppies. But whenever Buttercup stole her night light and hid it so well she couldn't find it for a week, she had nightmares. Awful ones, full of all kinds of terrible things. It wasn't the dark that scared her so much as the possibilities of the dark, the metaphoric symbolism of it (Blossom would be proud). She wasn't like Buttercup, who threw everything she had into a fight, and she wasn't like Blossom, who used a carefully controlled amount. She was the sweet one, the one who was never taken seriously.

She hadn't asked to be a hero. She hadn't been asked, upon her birth, what she wanted to do with her life. She protected Townsville because the poor people needed it. They expected it. She didn't mind helping them out, but it wasn't what she wanted to do her entire life. It was exhausting, to be frank; Townsville was never perfectly safe for longer than five minutes. A new disaster happened every day, be it a new monster, a three-times-convicted-three-times-escaped criminal aiming for a fourth conviction, or a stubborn pickle jar. Sometimes, Bubbles just wanted to get away from it all for a few years.

That thought itself made her blush. It was stupid to want to walk out on her sisters, on the town she swore to save, but it was always there, that niggling desire. Other times she just wanted an unlimited supply of monsters to exhaust herself upon. If she wanted to, she knew she could probably take over the town and run it with twice the capability of the Mayor (the poor guy was well into his nineties; Miss Bellum was more the Mayor now than he was). And twice the iron fist. The problem with being a superhero was that there was such a thin line between "hero" and "villain". Blossom didn't think so, but Bubbles knew better. What was so different between her saving the town for her own glory and someone robbing a store so his family didn't starve? The thief had more honor than she did; he was probably more of a hero than she ever would be. Sure, it was wrong of him to do that, but wasn't it just as wrong for her to be only thinking of herself?

Not that she did, but the possibility, the darkness, was always there. Her worst nightmares were when she was facing herself, looking just as she always did except for that smile. It was nothing more than an upturning of her lips, an empty expression except for the burning fire in her eyes. She always woke up in a cold sweat after those dreams and padded down to the training simulation for another face-off with Level Eleven, now so easy it was absurd, but there was something comforting in mashing the fake monsters to a virtual pulp without even trying. She'd named them, too; Philip always went first, scratching for her side, then Bugsy snapped at her ankles, and so on. Level Eleven served as a constant reminder. It was there she first learned how "hardcore" she could be, and where she learned how easy it was for her to fly off the handle if she wasn't careful.

Buttercup always talked about her "dark side" like it was something hovering just under the surface, like if she slipped she wouldn't be able to stop falling. Buttercup was stronger than that, surely; surely her dark side wasn't any worse than Bubbles felt hers was. Blossom never mentioned having one, but everyone had a little badness in them. Everyone had a dark side. Even Bubbles. She couldn't be all sugar all the time.

The trick was to keep her bitterness from taking over her sweetness.

* * *

A/N: I wanted to take a sneak peek at the inside of Bubbles' head with this one. I found out some interesting things. I keep saying this, I know, but forgive the trailing and indecisiveness. Somewhere around thirty I should hit the flow stage. Maybe earlier if I work harder. ;)

Reviews is nice...


	5. Chapter 5

5. Seeking Solace

It was by chance Bubbles looked up in time to see a familiar blue streak cutting a trail across the sky. School wasn't out yet; in fact, it was only lunch, but something in her told her to go after him.

She made some excuse to her friends and floated up high enough to where she wouldn't disturb the ground below by kicking it into hyper drive. His track was still easy enough to see. If she flew fast enough, she could catch him before it disappeared.

It ended in the local park, deserted during the school days, making him easy to find. He was sitting in one of the swings, the chain wrapped around his arm once and his head leaning against it. He didn't say anything until she was in the swing next to him, scuffing the toes of her sneakers in the sand.

"Look, Bubbles, not to be rude, but I kind of came here for some alone time," Boomer said quietly. Bubbles shrugged.

"What good is alone time if you just sit and stew?" she asked. "What happened?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," he sighed. "It just got to me this time around."

She waited for him to elaborate. Eventually, with another sigh, he did.

"I can't tell you the specifics," he murmured, "but I'm leaving for a while."

"How long is a while?" Bubbles asked carefully. She'd given up on trying to act like he was a villain all the time; she knew, even if her sisters were unwilling to see, that Boomer had a soft side. It kept her from hating him outright, and although it drove her crazy sometimes, she kind of liked it. She figured this is what it felt like to be friends with a vampire. The danger, the adrenaline, always one step away from everything disintegrating into tragedy…it was exciting. Stupid, dangerous, but exciting.

"I don't know," he replied. "Look, I know we've had our scraps in the past, but I like to think that…well…that we're kind of friends now. Right?"

"Right," she echoed, but it was a hollow sound. "Friends."

"No matter what happens," he continued, "I just want you to know…" he looked at her, and Bubbles looked back. His mess of blond hair was a few shades darker than hers, closer to brass than her gold. His eyes were a darker blue, as well. Everything about him was a little darker. There was something poetic about that. If she was like Blossom she probably would have already put words to it. His eyes roved her face, as though he was looking at her for the first and last time. It made her feel uncomfortable, not because of his scrutiny, but because she'd gotten used to seeing him every day.

"Yes?" she prompted when he didn't say anything, and he finally dropped his eyes, looking back towards the sky.

"Let's make a promise," he said quietly. "I'm leaving really soon, and I don't know when I'll be back. No matter what you hear, no matter what I do, please promise me that you'll come back here every Sunday afternoon. If I'm not here, go ahead and go home. If I'm here, we can talk and catch up. Promise?"

"Sure," she managed to gasp out. The look he was giving her was intense, more intense than any of her boyfriends over the years had ever given her. He stood up and walked towards her, pulling her onto her feet and against his chest. They seemed to hang in limbo during that hug, and Bubbles tried her best not to cry. It was like they were suspended on a tightrope over a volcano. One slip in either direction and they would come crashing down. Of course, they could survive volcanoes, and fly before ever hitting the lava, but it was still a dangerous thing to feel. All at once his arms loosened, and before she could react he brushed his lips across her cheek and was gone, a zigzag against the clouds.

Bubbles kept her promise. Every Sunday she brought a picnic for two to the park. Every Sunday she went home with an extra lunch and a sad smile. It went on like that for months. Every other day of the week she was herself, happy and go-lucky. Buttercup and Blossom were both worried (Buttercup more than she liked to admit), but they respected her wishes and didn't intrude on her Sunday ritual.

The leaves turned from pale green nubs to bright emerald foliage. The park was flooded most every day with kids, but still Bubbles went, spreading out her tablecloth in a corner of the playground and setting out the lunch she made. The kids didn't bother her; they figured she was having lunch with one of her imaginary friends.

It was the dead of summer before she saw him again. The clouds thundered ominously in the distance, echoing Bubbles' mood. She'd heard _of_ him plenty; terrible stories about kidnappings and torturing, never more than a whisper of gossip on the air, but enough to make Bubbles' heart ache. She brought an umbrella to cover up the basket. She didn't care about getting wet herself. Lighting flashed, and all of a sudden he was there, burying his head in her lap. She was so startled she shrieked, falling back and catching herself with her arms just in time.

He looked up at her with one blue eye, and Bubbles felt her annoyance and hurt melt a little. She smoothed out her skirt and uncovered the rest of his face. He was definitely looking worse for wear, but it was his expression that made him look haggard. He just looked so…_weary_, there was no other word for it.

"You came," he croaked. "I wasn't sure if you were coming."

"Every Sunday," she murmured, and the thunder boomed again. "I promised."

He sat up, and Bubbles finally got a good look at him. His clothes were clean, if a little worn, but the rest of him was worn, too. No scars; Chemical X had a funny way of healing all that up without so much as a scratch left behind. There was just something about him that made him seem empty. She wordlessly passed him a sandwich, which he devoured in three seconds flat.

"I've heard a lot about you the past few months," she said quietly, and Boomer's face went from relaxed to taut. "I'm not going to ask if any of it is true. I don't care. But what took you so long?"

"You don't care?" Boomer asked, perplexed. "How could you not care? I—I did some awful stuff, Bubbles, outright despicable."

"Did you enjoy it?" Bubbles asked frankly, and Boomer fervently shook his head. "Then I don't care. Not at the moment, probably not for a while. At some point…" she bit her lip, and he sighed.

"I know," he replied softly. They didn't say anything as they worked through the picnic Bubbles packed, but the clouds got closer and the breeze picked up, waving through Bubbles' pigtails.

"Why did it take you so long to get here?" she repeated, and Boomer shrugged.

"Long mission," he grunted. "Him wasn't satisfied until we were thorough."

"Thorough?" Bubbles asked, then shook her head. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

"It's not that I wanted to stay away for so long," he persisted. "I tried to come, honest. Brick, you know how he is…"

She nodded mechanically. A spot of rain fell on her nose, and she wiped it away, standing up. He stood with her, and neither one of them moved.

"It…it's not that I'm not glad you're here," she said slowly, "but…Boomer, if you really wanted to, you could have come, right? You could have seen me."

"I did want to," Boomer stepped forward, "I really did. Some things can't…can't be pushed past." She didn't look at him until his hands were on her shoulders. "They knew something was up. Something was up with all of us, but none of us wanted to talk about it. If they found out…if they knew…" he struggled with himself for a minute, and it started to sprinkle. "It's not the boys I'm worried about so much as Him. He just—he _knows_ things. He sees everything I do. He's probably watching me right now."

"If he's watching, then why are you here?" Bubbles asked acidly, and Boomer blinked. "If you care so much about what they think—"

"I don't give a—I don't—" He swore, transferring his hands from her shoulders to his hair, taking fistfuls of it. He turned his back on her, then whirled back around, his hair sticking up and his eyes wild. "I don't care what they _think_, I care what they _do!_ You have no _idea_ what Him is capable of!"

"We've handled Him before, and I'm pretty sure I can beat him again," Bubbles crossed her arms. "If that's what you want me to do—"

"Of course not!" he screamed, and the rain turned from a sprinkle to a shower. He took her shoulders again, shaking her a little. "I don't want you anywhere _near_ the maniac! Don't you get that? Do you understand?"

Bubbles looked at him uncertainly, and he studied her with his still-crazy eyes. All of a sudden he crushed his lips against hers, wrapping his arms back around her and kissing her like there was no tomorrow coming. She didn't have time to feel shocked or insulted; his desperation was contagious, and she wound her own arms around his neck. She felt him snapping the elastic bands holding her pigtails in place as the deluge broke over their heads and soaked them all the way through, felt his fingers wind through her hair and his other hand tighten its hold on her back. Her breath hitched in her throat and the one voice of reason still in her head was quickly silenced as he inadvertently backed her up against the swing set rail. As quickly as it started it stopped, and Boomer was looking at her, his breath ragged and hers just as uneven.

"Do you get it?" he asked lamely, and she nodded. It was still raining hard, but Bubbles didn't care as she pulled Boomer back for more. This is what kept them both sane, this spark between them. Life pulled them in different directions, on opposite sides of the line, but so long as they had _this_, life could take good and evil and shove it. When it came to love, there was no good and evil. There was only heart and passion, and they had both.

* * *

A/N: Since Bubbles and Boomer didn't reflect on each other in their individual chapters, I figured they deserved some kissy-face action the next time around. Sorry for my lateness; family emergency, y'all know how that goes. I like this one a lot. Just sayin'. :D

(Psst! You there! Yes, you, sir/madam! PUSH THA BUTTON. LEAVE NICE REVIEW. GOOD FOR BUSINESS.)


	6. Chapter 6

6. Break Away

"Ready?" Buttercup asked, her greasy fingers not moving from her half of the wishbone. Across the table from her, Butch rolled his eyes.

"I was _born_ ready," he yawned. "Can we get this over with already? We both know who's going to win."

"Unless you agree it's me, then yes, we do have to," Buttercup snapped. "On three, okay?"

Butch picked up his shot glass of Antidote X with the same slow, measured pace as Buttercup did hers, and, neither one taking their eyes off the other, they counted to three and downed their glasses. Buttercup felt the familiar weakness seep through her bones. She hated that feeling more than any other. She couldn't stand feeling like a regular weakling girl, especially given present company. Maybe it was stupid (okay, it was _definitely _stupid) to waste a few hours of normalcy for one small fight (over a _wishbone_, of all things), but this wasn't about the wishbone anymore. It was about Buttercup and showing her chauvinist "best friend" a thing or two about real girl power (without actually using the words "girl power").

"One more time, on three," Buttercup said as she tightened her hold. Butch, whose eyes were gleaming despite his bored expression, did likewise.

"One," she said, and she felt a gentle tug from his side of the bone. _Of course_, she thought acidly, _he's trying to psych me out. Well, it's not gonna work. I've got this._

"Two," he said in reply, and she planted her feet, getting ready to jerk back as hard as she could. He was openly grinning now, his eyebrows moving up and down seemingly of their own accord. She contained her scathing retort, albeit with difficulty.

"Three," they said simultaneously, and pulled for all they were worth. The bone didn't budge for one heart-pounding, sweat-wiping, grease-dripping moment. Then it snapped, and Buttercup almost lost her balance as she reeled back, the bone clutched in her hand. Butch was lying across the table, holding his bone close to his face to inspect it. He was a little near-sighted when he was on Antidote X, but there was no mistaking it—he had the bigger half of the wishbone.

"Yes!" he crowed as Buttercup threw hers on the ground and swore. "Eat it, girlie! Eat it!"

"I'm going to make _you_ eat it in a second," she grumbled, and as he got in her face to laugh some more she brought her fist up to catch him a good one across the mouth. Antidote X or no, she still had a heck of an arm on her, and Butch's good humor turned to outrage in a second.

"What the crap?" he complained. "I won fair and square. No need to be a sore loser."

"Sore loser?" she grinned. "Who was the pansy who cried himself to sleep when I beat him at tetherball last week?"

"I did _not!_" he threw his hands up in the air. "I'm telling you, a hornet stung me right in the eyelid, just as I was about to win!"

"Of course it did," she smirked. "Well, crybaby, we've got a couple hours to kill before this antidote wears off."

"Billiards?" Butch offered, and she punched him in the arm, grinning.

"It's pool. Only idiots say billiards anymore."

"I'll play you for bragging rights," he challenged, and she raised an eyebrow. "Winner gets to call it whatever the crap he wants. Deal?"

"Sure," she shrugged, "and when I beat you at _pool_, we can grab something else to eat. Those chicken wings won't last forever."

"You eat like a dude," he chuckled, and she caught the pool stick he threw at her without even looking.

"And you throw like a girl," she retorted. "I guess that makes us even."

He thought about it for a second, then shrugged.

"Guess so," he agreed. "By the way, that's a nice shirt you're wearing."

"Really?" Buttercup asked before she could stop herself, looking down at her t-shirt. Maybe it _was_ a little girly for the occasion—

"Three in one!" Butch cheered, and Buttercup got her head back in the game as quickly as she'd been distracted out of it. She did, before goading him into missing his next shot, notice how his eyes scanned her, almost too quickly for her to catch at regular human sight.

She'd slit her own throat before admitting it, but she kind of liked it.

* * *

A/N: I swear, these things mutate. MUTATE. It started out as a simple competition over a wishbone (don't ask me HOW it ended up with the chicken wings, it just kind of did), and morphed into a flirty Butch/Buttercup moment. (And, before you jump my case, Buttercup is perfectly capable of giving a crap about her appearance; she giggled over plenty of girly things in the show. Tomboyed-up girly things, but girly things nonetheless.) And if any of you are wondering about the lack of filthy language, it's because I don't use it and I'm sure as heck not going to make my characters use it. Far more interesting things are said without it. The boys' characters might suffer a little for it, but if y'all don't like it, no one is making you read my stuff.

Anyway, I like this piece. I think Butch is one I'm going to have to work on long and hard. It's weird; Blossom, Bubbles, and Boomer all come pretty easy, but Buttercup, Butch, and Brick are like pulling teeth. I don't get it.

REVIEWS!


	7. Chapter 7

7. Heaven

I'm a monster. I have absolutely no problems with it. I like what I do, and most of what I do is pretty bad stuff. I know where the line is, and I have no problems flossing my teeth with it.

My only problem (okay, so I lied. Sue me. It's what I do) is when I happen to look up and see her. A fallen angel. _My _fallen angel. She doesn't know it yet, but she's going to be my girl one day. I can be pretty possessive over my toys. It's weird; she's not the usual kind of girl I'm into. She tries too hard to be a goody two-shoes like her sisters, but I know better. There's an animal somewhere inside of her, waiting to rip free. My inner animal has more free reign than that. That's kind of the attraction we've got going. Animalistic. Magnetic. Natural, I guess. Opposites attract, but so do likes. We're like two sides of the same coin. She's heads, I'm tails. Still one quarter.

She took a long, hard fall from heaven one day, and I caught her in my demon claws. She stopped struggling a long time ago. Her wings kept dropping feathers (in metaphor terms, those would be her defenses), until she's basically got nothing but a useless jut of bat-like bony wings sticking out of her back and a pair of horns peeking out of her hair (and that's where the metaphor ceases to make any kind of sense…). I typically go for the lighter-haired chicks. Her hair's darker than mine. Jet-black. I like the change; it looks so freakin' good against that china-doll skin of hers.

I trip my way through life. Most of the time my fist ends up in someone else's mouth. Since meeting her, I've been walking a lot straighter. I guess she balances me out. That's what makes her frustrating. I know she's right beside me, but she keeps looking at me like she's still sitting pretty on her cloud and I'm stuck in a lava pool. I know better. We're even. Freaks, monsters, deviants, demons, angels. It's all the same.

But did she fall, or did I rise? Feels like I'm still in Hell. Maybe she's really still in Heaven. We had the power to change that, you know. Bring earth and sky closer together. That's what a storm is. And, man, when we storm, we freakin' bring the _rain_. Heaven falls and Hell rises.

At the end of the day, I'm still a bad guy and she's still a good girl. It's what happens in between that really matters, I guess.

* * *

A/N: Butch demanded a first-person view, so I gave it to him. I was listening to Angel by Judas Priest (Rob Halford, I will forever worship your voice and its incredible god-like range) and Animal by Neon Trees (LOVE IT!) alternately, so this is what happened. Three Blues in a row and two Greens in a row...good thing the Reds are finally getting some love next update, yeah?

Reviews power my brain up. Just sayin'. ;)


	8. Chapter 8

8. Innocent

I literally ripped the door off its hinges when I came home, tossing it over my shoulder and ignoring Boomer's protest as it smacked him in the face. Butch tried to say something, that stupid smile on his face (he always got that way whenever I was in a pissy mood; he thought it was funny, for some reason, like Christmas had come early just because I was ready for a violent fight); instead he found himself eating carpet as I shoved his head into the floor and kept walking until I was safely sequestered in the training simulator. The dopes knew better than to try and mess with me when I was in here.

"Level thirty-six," I said through gritted teeth, and the automated computer obediently set the virtual monster level to one that I had trouble beating normally. Now that I was angry it would be cake, but at least the victory would calm me down.

Immediately a flash of pink appeared in my peripherals, and that did absolutely nothing for me but turn up the volume on the "I Hate Blossom" soundtrack I had going. It was just an unfortunately-colored blob thing, but it burned and sizzled so deliciously underneath the heat of my eye lasers I felt the urge to laugh maniacally. Usually I repressed it, but today…today, I felt like cutting loose, so from my throat ripped the laugh of a man who hit rock bottom.

Maybe I was seeing things, maybe Butch was back in the computer room messing with the settings, but I started imagining that every spidery creature, every glob of ectoplasmic goo, every business fatcat with a wad of heavily-armored goons, had her face and her hair. Laughing at me. Taunting me. Daring me to do something I dearly wanted, but couldn't risk.

This time it wasn't a laugh, but a primal scream as I tore people apart with my bare hands. It was all virtual, but the blood was still warm as it pounded against my skin, and her know-it-all pink eyes glared at me from every angle. She had no _idea_ what someone like me had to do to survive, I thought viciously, taking particular care to choke a woman wielding a rocket launcher with her own long cherry-colored hair (too dark to be _hers_; Blossom's was more of a dusky autumn-orange, not that I cared). Created to be her equal in every possible way, to surpass her, even, and she couldn't even give me the courtesy of looking me in the eyes when we spoke (argued).

She wouldn't last a day in the real world. She spent her time being the responsible and mature one here where she was coddled and her every need was catered to, but it was girls like that who cracked and crumbled when the chips were down and she had her back against the wall. She thought she was doing good here, spoon-feeding the lazy poor and donating her once-worn too-expensive clothes to homeless shelters to clothe cheap whores, but she wasn't doing anything but what hypocrites in high society do. She trusted too much in the good of other people, just like a stupid naïve kid. Sure, she was guarded, but only for as long as they didn't try to steal her purse after five minutes. She was worse than her sister.

The computer finally gave out after about three hours, but I still was fired up about our latest argument. I switched off the lights and floated through a window to sit on the roof (Mojo's roof today; Him and Mojo took turns, and this week was our monkey-dad's). Despite myself my brain decided to latch onto my musings about her in the real world, and from there it morphed into some sick daydream about where she'd be after a year. She wouldn't use Chemical X to get ahead; she was too fixated on the concept of fair play for that, at least in the corporate world.

She'd lose her job within six months for refusing the advances of someone higher up than her (because there was no way she'd possibly succumb to that kind of hollow temptation; she practically wore turtlenecks and jeans every day, for heaven's sake). She'd try to get a job elsewhere, but with her reputation forever blackened by the scum who'd come onto her, no one would want to touch her with a ten-foot pole. She'd eventually settle for something lower-down; a fast food worker, maybe, or a librarian. Something she'd talk herself into thinking was worthwhile, but in her heart knew was little better than dirt. She'd suck at that, too, because she'd try to go back to school or something and run herself into the ground financially. Left on the street, relying on the kindness of someone she'd once been, but no one would help her, because no one was a true philanthropist nowadays, not like how she'd been…there were few options at the bottom, and somehow or another something bad would happen to her. Drug dealers. Pimps. There were a lot of uses for a face like hers, for a body like hers. For some reason, the thought of her at the mercy of one of those cockroaches made my fists tighten on the roof and my fingers dig into the titanium.

It didn't make any sense, but I continued with the daydream and inserted myself in there. She was barely hanging on by her fingertips, trying her best to work that pole with everything she had, but it just wasn't enough for the crowd that night…one trip, one small stumble, and suddenly someone threw a beer can at her, splashing it all in her hair, all over her skin…the owner coming out, slapping her across the face and shoving her offstage onto a table…the wood splinters beneath her, the glasses shatter against her skin (and, for some reason, she's on Antidote X, so she's all cut up and bleeding by now)…someone puts a hand out to her, but not to help as it becomes a bear claw across her throat and other hands start groping and tearing…and there I am, breaking heads against my beer bottle and kicking her strangler in the throat, putting my jacket around her and covering her up and blasting her out of there (because I'm the hero of this story, and therefore I get to keep my powers. Go figure)…her eyes on mine, tearing up as she whispers a "thank you" she can barely muster from her shocked and frightened self…Antidote X suddenly wearing off as she steps out of my shower, a towel wrapped around her and no sign of blood or beer on her anywhere…a fire in her eyes as she puts her arms around my neck and…and…and…

I forced myself out of this weird world, promptly releasing the roof; bunched-up lumps of metal were left there as I took to the sky and started flying. If she caught me, I'd say I was egging her house or something, and then skedaddle when she noted my lack of eggs, but after my whacked-out mind imagined something like that…I just had to see the real her, to assure myself nothing like that would happen.

She was in her room with her sisters, letting Bubbles braid her hair and laughing about something with Buttercup. She looked relaxed. Happy. Completely free of all the cares and worries I carried with me. For instance, she didn't have as much to worry about with regards to Butch and Buttercup; she wasn't the one who had to keep his leash tight as far as Buttercup was concerned, because one slip on my side and everything would go down the pipes. She didn't have to worry about what kind of damage a certain blond she knew would do if a certain blond I knew broke her heart. She didn't have two lunkheads to look after. I did. Two lunkheads, and two manipulative fathers who were more dangerous than said lunkheads could imagine, because they hadn't seen Him and Mojo at their worst trying to motivate me.

For now, she was just Blossom. Infuriating, irritating, agitating, but trouble-free (for now) and kind (what?) and beautiful (where did _that_ come from?). For now, she could stay that way, so long as she didn't fall to the mercy of dirt crueler than I could ever be to her (in some ways, at any rate).

For now, she could stay innocent.

* * *

A/N: This excursion into Brick's head was a strange journey, dudes. On the one hand he can't stand that Blossom is so high-and-mighty and try as he might to do otherwise, he cares a lot about what she thinks because he wants her to change and see him as an equal; on the other hand, he doesn't want her to change, he just wants to protect her. It's a really weird and contradictory line to toe.

Feedback on how good or bad this 'un was; I'm still unsure about where this one went. XD


	9. Chapter 9

9. Sunset

Bubbles dipped her paintbrush in the palette she held in her hand and took a good, long look at the sky. She made a green line across the middle of her paper. That was the ground. She looked some more, and carefully made a half-circle in yellow. Orange smears around that…red around that…purple above the red, and blue on the top. She stood back, looking from her painting to the actual sunset in front of her and back. It looked great.

While she was admiring her work a blue flash streaked in front of her, paused for a second, and was gone. Bubbles gasped, her face reddening.

"Boomer!" she screamed, looking at her ruined painting. The colors were all smeared together from where he'd run his fingers through the paint, the orange mixing with the purple and the yellow stained with blue and red. Bubbles once more looked helplessly between the sunset and the painting. She paused.

Come to think of it…it wasn't bad. She studied her painting, then slowly looked back at the sunset. It actually looked better. More realistic.

"Thanks, Boomer," she said out loud, sitting on the grass and watching the fireflies dance while the painting dried.

* * *

A/N: Hey, guys! I'm back! Naw, I didn't do too well with NaNo, but I learned a lot about myself and I had fun, so that's all that matters. I'm back to semi-frequent updates!

I've gotta tell y'all, my original idea for this was...yeesh. I liked it, I really did, but it just didn't fit this prompt at ALL. I'll polish it up and use it later, but imagine this: 1920s, Boomer as a hitman, Bubbles as a female detective, Him as a bootlegger and mob boss. I'll let that marinate with y'all for a while.

Reviews power my creativity. Not really. But they're still nice. :D


	10. Chapter 10

10. Breathe Again

Bubbles clutched the sheets around her, biting hard on the end to keep herself from screaming. She should have seen this coming. Everyone she knew was telling her this would happen. Why was it that, just when she needed to be her most obedient, she decided to be stubborn?

She gingerly touched the burn on her shoulder. She didn't know moonshine could do that to skin. If it had made such an awful mark on her, she didn't like to think what it had done to his tongue. Actually, she would like to think of it. She'd like to think it burned it right out of his lying mouth. Tears leaked from her eyes, and she curled up tighter, shoving more of the sheets in her mouth to keep her quiet.

She'd have to call her sisters and her father at some point. She couldn't stay in this hotel all night. Not now. She forced herself to uncurl and pull on her bathrobe, walking to the wash room. The face looking back in the mirror didn't look like Bubbles to her. She looked like a stupid girl who believed a man when he said she was pretty. Her hair was a tangled mess, a far cry from its usual bob. Her makeup ran down her cheeks in twin black rivers, and the red marks on her neck stood out brighter than ever against her pallid skin.

A knock on the door sounded, and for a second her heart leaped in her chest. _Maybe he's come back,_ she thought hopefully, for which she rebuked herself a second later. _No. He's not coming back._

She wiped her face on her sleeve and walked to the door, trying to smooth down her hair. She undid the latch and the door opened, and a familiar pair of blue eyes took in her appearance.

"Boomer," she said, trying to sound normal, but his name came out in a choke. His expression melted into a wince.

"Aw, honey, I told you," he said, and she burst into tears again.

"I know it," she sobbed, and she heard the door close as he stepped inside. "I know you did, and everything was true, I just didn't want to believe it—"

"Shh," he soothed, pulling her against his chest. She sobbed into his shirt as he shrugged out of his coat and put his arms around her. They didn't say anything until long after Bubbles gained control of herself.

"What do I do?" she asked softly, and Boomer let her go, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She sat next to him, wringing her fingers. "He's not going to marry me. My father is going to kick me out. My life is over."

"They're not gonna do that," Boomer shook his head. "I know everything looks hard, but…" he paused, trying to find the words. She twined her fingers in her hair, gently tugging on it.

"He said he liked my hair," she said in a small voice. "'The bee's knees,' he called it." Her hand reached for the drawer, in which was a pair of scissors Bubbles usually kept on hand for loose threads. When Boomer saw what she was doing he reached over and gently grabbed her wrist.

"That ain't the way to go about it, Bubbles," he said, and she dropped the scissors. "Listen, he's been my dad since I was ten, and I know some things about him. I warned you 'bout him because he's been wronging pretty girls like you since I first met him. But…Bubbles, I just don't want you to turn out like the others. You're better than all of them, and they all went funny in the head."

Bubbles sniffed, reached for her handkerchief, and blew her nose. Boomer drew his arm around her and she leaned against him, and for another few minutes they were silent.

"You ever had a broken heart, Boom?" Bubbles asked. Boomer nodded. "It's like getting a kick to the gut, isn't it? Like you'll never be able to stand up and walk around and breathe because it hurts so much."

He nodded again, not trusting himself to speak.

"I should have seen it coming," she said, and tears welled in her eyes. "All fellas are the same. They tell you what you want to hear, then they leave you cold when they get what they want." She laughed hysterically. "_Pretty._ I should've known when he started calling me that." Boomer looked down at her and pulled her up by the shoulders.

"Bubbles," he said, "maybe you won't understand me when I tell you this, but one day you will. Yeah, it hurts a lot when someone breaks your heart, but you don't have to let it get you down. You're a bright, beautiful woman." She snorted, and he tilted her head up so she was forced to look him in the eyes. "I mean it. You're gorgeous. You don't know it because you're you. Mr. Him won't ever see it, but I do." Her eyes widened, startled. "You don't need a low-life like him. You're a Utonium gal, and what you're famous for is your looks and your brains."

"Not after this," Bubbles said in a small voice, and Boomer sighed.

"Come here." Boomer pulled her up and walked her to the balcony, where he kept his arm around her waist as he led her to the rail. Townsville glittered in the midnight darkness, the streetlights glimmering on the new roads and the fresh automobiles rumbling along the pavement. "Out there, there's a lot of dames who would kill to be you, and there's a lot of girls who have been where you are now." He traced his thumb over her shoulder. "You asked me once why I left. Do you still want to know?"

Bubbles nodded slowly, and Boomer gave her arm a squeeze.

"Because I couldn't stand watching him hurt you," he said simply. She looked up at him, startled, and he shrugged, a small smile growing on his face. "Come on. The night is still young, and I know this swanky little club downtown to make you feel better."

"No thanks," Bubbles replied, sounding exhausted. "I just want to go home." She sighed. "Can you take me there?"

He hated it when she sounded like that. "You don't even have to ask," he agreed, and waited on the balcony for her to get dressed. She tapped on the window pane, and he turned around and opened the door.

"Can you help me?" she asked, turning around, and Boomer felt his throat bob when he saw the plane of her back. Where the dress gapped her skin was smooth, but if he just opened it a little further, he could see the angry red tracks he'd left. He swore quietly.

"I can fix that," he said, and she turned her head to catch him in her peripherals.

"He said it was moonshine and it wouldn't hurt any," she murmured.

"Surprise. He lied." Boomer guided her back to the bed and sat her down while he went into the kitchenette for a washcloth. "He calls it Red Fire. Uses it to mark his past catches so he knows, if he ever finds them again, that he's been there already." He returned and started dabbing at the worst of her burns. "He never repeats a performance."

They were silent as Boomer mopped up the traces of the volatile alcohol, and Bubbles only squeaked once or twice when he was applying another wet rag to her back. It was almost an hour later before either of them spoke again.

"Thank you," Bubbles said softly. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Boomer smiled a little and removed the rags. Her back was already looking a little better. Silently he did up the buttons to her dress, making sure to avoid touching her skin where it could be helped. When he was done he helped her into her coat and offered his arm. She took it, took one last look at the room, and let him lead her out and downstairs to where his Ford was waiting.

The drive to the Utonium estate was silent, with Bubbles looking out the window and Boomer periodically looking over at her. Once parked in front of her house Bubbles turned back to Boomer.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, and Boomer forced a smile. "For everything." She got out of the car without a second glance and made her way to her door. Boomer watched her go, releasing the breath he'd been holding since she started speaking again. He stayed in front of her house until he saw her bedroom light turn on and back off. He had a feeling he hadn't seen the last of her, and the thought made him glad.

Over the years Bubbles would learn many things about Boomer, but two things she would never know was how many bruises Boomer got when he confronted Mr. Him later that same night, or how red Mr. Him's face first got when Boomer broke a bottle of Red Fire over his head. There were some things friends and lovers didn't share; this counted as some of the first in small services he would do for her, and do for her over and over, because it didn't matter how many times she broke his heart; all it took was for her to say his name and he could breathe again.

* * *

A/N: Okay, I apologize for the gap, but it's the holidays, and I think you all know how crazy that time of the year can be. :) That being said, this is me exploring my PPG 1920s idea, because I'm really intrigued by the whole concept. It's just so different, and I LOVE it! This particular episode would be me reinventing the Octi episode, only without Octi. Him is a womanizing mob boss, the Utonium girls are old money socialites, the Boys are new money gangsters-it's just all so fabulous! If there's one thing I've learned to do and do pretty good, it's AUing the crap out of fandoms. People may take offense at this, but it's what I see happening, so lay off. And the Red Fire junk? Him's built up an immunity of sorts to it, so he can use it whenever he wants. Eew...he's become so deliciously evil it's creeping me out. XD

Reviews are good, y'know?


	11. Chapter 11

11. Memory

Long after the last shovel of dirt had been thrown on the mound and the tombstone was secured Buttercup still stood at the foot of the Professor's grave. Blossom was off entertaining the guests at Professor Utonium's last farewell, and Bubbles was busy crying her eyes out in Boomer's shoulder.

"Hey," she said quietly, twirling the flower she'd picked from one of Blossom's vases between her fingers. "I guess this is it, huh?" She glanced around her and then walked on the mound to sit in front of the tombstone. "Hope you like the tombstone. Bubbles made it. She was all for making a statue and putting a gate around it, but Blossom shot her down."

She bit her lip, kicking off her heels and spreading her skirt. "Sorry for getting the dress muddy. I know it wasn't cheap, but I guess you knew it wasn't going to last long if you gave it to me anyway." She looked at the flower in her hand. "I got you this. I think it's a carnation or something. I thought you'd like it. It's pretty." She laid it in front of the tombstone. She stared at the tombstone for a while. Bubbles had carved the Professor's face into the very top, smiling and tinkering with a test tube. Below was written _Professor Utonium. Loved Father, Valued Friend, Great Scientist._ Buttercup shut her eyes and sighed, then opened them and looked back at the Professor's image.

"Do you remember that picnic a year or two ago, when you tried to make your chili again and ended up setting Bubbles' brownies on fire?" she asked, and at the thought her mouth quirked upwards. "Yeah. I do. I tried to tell Butch the story when I got home but it didn't come out right. I guess it's a you-had-to-be-there thing."

A drop of rain plopped on her nose. "Y'know, I used to kinda hate you for naming me Buttercup," she went on. "I mean, Blossom and Bubbles you actually thought about. Me, I was just in need of a B name to complete the set." She turned around to make sure no one was sneaking up on her and returned to the tombstone. "I looked up the meaning one day. Buttercups mean immaturity and ingratitude." She chuckled. "I guess you got me pegged there, didn't you?" Another drop of rain fell, followed by three more. "Look, you know I've got problems saying it, but…uh…s-sorry for being…you know…a jerk, growing up. I know I wasn't an easy kid to raise, but I think you did pretty good."

"We all think so," Blossom's voice softly sounded above her, and Buttercup jumped. Bubbles suddenly snuggled up on Buttercup's right side, and Blossom sat down on her left.

"What are you doing here?" Buttercup asked, her usual prickly nature flaring up.

"He's our dad, too," Bubbles replied, blowing hard into her handkerchief. Buttercup forced herself to relax as Bubbles leaned more fully on her, then sighed as Blossom leaned on her other side.

"You're gonna ruin your clothes," Buttercup said in a last-ditch effort to get rid of them, but Blossom just shrugged.

For a long time no one said anything, not even when it started drizzling. Finally Bubbles spoke.

"Professor," she said in a small voice, "I'm sorry for making you liver and onions for Father's Day that one year."

It took a second to sink in, and after a moment Buttercup giggled.

"What?" Bubbles asked, affronted.

"Nothing," Buttercup replied, then stifled another laugh. "I can't believe you're still sorry for that."

"Well, he did say he liked it," Blossom piped up. "Silly Professor."

"Hey, remember the PowerProf phase he went through?" Buttercup said, and her sisters both smiled and nodded.

"Ooh, and that one time he tried to make us wear sunblock and we didn't listen?" Blossom added. This time mixed winces and giggles were drawn from the three women.

In a matter of seconds they were reminiscing about their favorite Professor memories, laughing and carrying on so much that they didn't even realize the clouds were breaking until a shaft of sunlight fell directly on them. They quieted for a minute, smiles still apparent, soaking in the warmth.

"Sometimes I wonder why everyone wears black to funerals," Bubbles said.

"It's for mourning," Blossom replied officiously, and Bubbles shook her head.

"No, no, I know that, but I wonder why everyone insists on being sad and mopey at funerals," she elaborated. "I think it's okay to be sad for a little while, but sometimes the best way to honor someone's passing is to remember all the good memories and share them."

Blossom nodded slowly, and as the persistent ray of sun dried them off a little a faint memory returned to Buttercup. Hesitantly, she started singing.

"Love, love, love, la, la, love," her voice cracked as tears finally stung at her eyes, "la, la, love, makes the world go 'round."

Bubbles joined in as Buttercup sang the refrain again, and after a minute so did Blossom. The clouds passed and the rain returned, and the girls had to stand up and brush the mud off as best they could, but Buttercup wouldn't leave without kneeling in front of the tombstone again and hesitantly kissing the picture of the Professor. Silently Bubbles and Blossom followed, and, hand-in-hand, they took to the sky to visit the old house.

* * *

A/N: Finally, an update! A sad one, mostly centered on the girls and their relationship with their dear old dad. I have nothing much to say about this...

Reviews be nice, yo.


	12. Chapter 12

12. Insanity

Monday mornings were never an affair Professor Utonium looked forward to.

At five o'clock on the dot the hot water heater rumbled to life as Blossom took her shower. About that time Blossom's obnoxious alarm clock started going off every ten minutes, to make sure the other girls were up and going. This morning was no different; to make matters worse, Buttercup had stayed up all hours of the night and melted it down to ash with her laser vision, which would probably instigate another fight the Professor wasn't quite up to dealing with.

Five-thirty was when Bubbles got up and got herself showered, and when Blossom, in the process of drying her hair, took the time to lecture and berate Buttercup on yet another alarm clock ruined, on the virtues of early to bed and early to rise, on how they needed to be well-rested for their academic pursuits. Professor Utonium counted to three and heard Buttercup's groggy retort, something about Blossom being a boring stick-in-the-mud, no doubt, because Blossom fired back, and within another count to three the girls were already screaming at each other.

Before Professor Utonium could drag his creaking body out of bed Bubbles stuck her head out of the bathroom door and gently asked for them to keep their voices down, the Professor was still asleep. Professor Utonium smiled a little as Blossom and Buttercup grumbled their agreement and Buttercup's bed groaned as she got out of it. Judging by her heavy steps she was going downstairs to start fixing breakfast.

Bubbles took another fifteen minutes in her shower and then there were two hair dryers going for about ten minutes. Down in the kitchen something sizzled, and the smell of French toast and coffee wafted up the stairs. Professor Utonium, at about six, sat up and yawned, just as Buttercup, still in her sweats, floated in, kissed the top of his head, and put his usual #1 Dad mug full of fresh-brewed coffee in his hand. He thanked her, and she floated back out as Blossom walked in and turned on the news before he could reach for the controller. She, too, kissed the top of his head, smiled, and waltzed out, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor of the hallway. He was almost done with his coffee and feeling much more aware when Bubbles zoomed in, holding two shirts in her hands.

"Which one?" she asked, her eyes wide with worry. "Blossom said they both looked fine and Buttercup said she didn't care, and I really, really need someone's opinion on this! Which one looks better?"

Professor Utonium studied both shirts and indicated the one with the higher neckline, and Bubbles smiled and thanked him and kissed his cheek. At six-fifteen breakfast was ready and the family was seated around the table. Blossom, already fully dressed, took her time eating and tried to start a family discussion on the latest world news. Bubbles, her shirt chosen but still in her pajama pants, talked about the latest high school drama volumes over Blossom's attempts as she shoved slices of French toast in her mouth. Buttercup didn't say much, her hair still tousled and still in her sweatpants and tank top, but she bolted her breakfast and returned to the kitchen to make lunch.

At six-fifty Blossom and Bubbles had a small quarrel about a pair of heels Bubbles wanted to borrow and Buttercup put the final touches on the Swedish meatballs she was making. Blossom relented and let Bubbles wear her heels, to which Bubbles reacted by squealing for thirty seconds straight and babbling about how good she was going to look for her friend Melissa's fashion show in Fashion Design today. Professor Utonium watched the news and tried to ignore Blossom and Buttercup's loud "discussion" about the state of the latter sister at this point in time and how she was going to make them late, to which Buttercup replied in her usual way by pulling Blossom's hair and mussing it up on the top. This led to a tussle in the kitchen that Professor Utonium swiftly broke up, and Blossom retreated back upstairs to redo her hair and find something else to wear that wasn't covered in leftover Swedish meatball sauce.

The meatballs were ready and packed in six individual Tupperware containers by seven-twenty, at which point Buttercup finally got in the shower. Blossom worried and paced, and Bubbles blew on her nails to help them finish drying. At seven twenty-five a hairdryer started going, and Blossom started checking her bag to make sure she had everything. At seven twenty-seven the hairdryer cut off as it was forcefully lobbed across the girls' room at Blossom's head, who was accusing Buttercup of taking half her textbooks and hiding them. At seven-thirty the Professor winced as Buttercup and Blossom's voices blended in an incoherent high-pitched shriek. Bubbles' voice soon joined as she zoomed upstairs to try to make peace between them.

At seven thirty-nine Blossom found her books in her Friday purse and apologized, which Buttercup barely heard as she laced up her boots. Professor Utonium hollered up the stairs that the girls were going to be late, to which Buttercup made a loud, snide comment about a certain carrot-top sister of hers. Blossom kept her composure and merely replied with an equally disdainful comment about a certain boyfriend of Buttercup's. Buttercup didn't answer, but her cheeks turned red as she stomped down the stairs.

At seven forty-five three streaks of light painted themselves towards Townsville High, the green and the pink on either side of the blue and still bickering. Professor Utonium watched them go, sagging against the doorframe and letting himself smile.

He wasn't getting any younger, and even these hectic Mondays were something he'd come to cherish. He wouldn't wish them on anyone, but he definitely wouldn't wish them away, either. He walked back into the house, picked up the breakfast dishes, mopped up the Swedish meatball sauce mess, picked up Bubbles' nail polish, went upstairs, straightened the girls' room, picked up and vacuumed the broken hairdryer and melted alarm clock, made a note to get Blossom new ones, put away Bubbles' multiple possible outfits, put Blossom's ruined blouse in the laundry to get treated, made a stack of Buttercup's forgotten homework papers she'd be back for in a few minutes, walked back downstairs, and paused in the hallway to look at an old picture, just after the girls' creation.

He'd certainly never expected this outcome when he put sugar, spice, and everything nice in a bowl and started mixing. As he continued walking down the hall, he smiled and sighed a little. Life had a funny way of giving us exactly what we needed when we needed it, he mused, and sequestered himself in his lab to start on his next big project. Never his next greatest invention; he'd done that already.

* * *

A/N: I imagine it's rather like this every manic Monday morning at the Utonium household. It's something similar to this in mine with me and my sister, lemme tell y'all...;)

Reviews are much appreciated, but y'all knew that already.


	13. Chapter 13

13. Misfortune

"Where are you going?" Mojo hissed at his son (for all intents and purposes) as he opened the door. Butch put his foot on the front porch and glanced back.

"Out."

"I can see that you are going out, for you have put your foot outside of the vicinity of the residence belonging to me, Mojo Jojo, and are in the process of following your foot into the outside world. I was referring to your location, which is outside of this house and is as of now unknown to me, which is why I inquired to know where it is you are going, for it is obviously outside of this house, when I have not given you permission to put your foot or any body part outside of the door," Mojo enunciated each phrase with a gesture towards the door, the walls, Mojo himself, and Butch. "You will now please inform me of the place you are now going, so that I may check to see if it is an endeavor worth missing our Family Game Night, which is a ritual of every Friday night in this house and you well know it, for Family Game Night is always the same time and place weekly, so as not to confuse or misinform any family member with constantly switching it about."

"I've got a date," Butch rolled his eyes. "'sides, Brick's holed up in his room reading and Boomer hasn't gotten up from the couch since we got home from school, so I don't think Game Night's happening tonight."

As if to enunciate his point Boomer groaned pitifully from the couch in front of Mojo's enormous flat-screen, on which a football game was playing. Mojo frowned deeper.

"I was not aware you had a date," he said slowly. "Why was I, Mojo Jojo, your father and creator, not made conscious of the fact that you were planning an outing with a female, in which you will undoubtedly have dinner, perform an activity both you and your companion enjoy, and, knowing you, possibly will end up doing unspeakable things of a physical nature in your car, when it is I who is responsible for your existence and your ability to go out and date in the first place?"

"Because I didn't think you needed to know," Butch replied. "I'm going to be late. Smell you later, Pops." With that he shut the door, and Mojo's brow furrowed deeper. He looked at the dinner table, where he'd already set up the Monopoly board with painstaking detail down to the angle of the dice, and trudged over to his tracking module to see who it was Butch was going to see.

Butch's date appeared to be a disturbingly familiar teenage girl with spiky black hair and green eyes. Mojo blinked a couple of times, rubbed his eyes, and stared at the screen.

"Surely the machine is malfunctioning," he muttered, "for I cannot be seeing the image which the screen is now projecting to me." He stared some more. "No, I can't be seeing correctly. My eyes are getting old." He turned to Boomer, still on the couch. "Boomer! Come look at this for me and tell me what you see."

"It's Butch on a date with Buttercup, Dad," Boomer replied without even budging. "'Bout time, too. He's been asking her out for months."

"Are you telling me," Mojo said, a note of panic in his voice, "that Butch, my son created for the purpose of evil and destroying the Powerpuff Girls, is now dating one of said Powerpuff Girls, namely, Buttercup, and now plans on taking her to dinner, doing an enjoyable activity with her, and doing unspeakable things with her in his car?"

"I doubt the 'unspeakable things' part, but, yeah, that's typically what dating means," Boomer shifted a bag of cheese puffs in his hand. "Lucky rat. I've had no luck with Bubbles, and I've been at it longer."

"I cannot have heard properly," Mojo said, marching in front of the TV in Boomer's direct line of vision, "for I believe I just heard another of my sons created for the purposes of evil and destroying the Powerpuff Girls pining after another one of said Powerpuff Girls, namely, Bubbles, but this must be a mistake, for my sons were, as I said, created for the purposes of evil and cannot possibly be thinking of—"

"Yeah, Dad, that's exactly what I mean," Boomer sat up, now amused at Mojo's rising anxiety. "And we're not sure, but we think Brick's making out with Blossom in between classes when no one's watching."

Mojo mouthed for a minute, then found his voice. "This cannot be!" He shrieked. "I have created you to _destroy_ them, not _kiss_ them! Did not Him, self-proclaimed Master of Evil, when he resurrected you three from your destruction, give you cootie vaccines protecting you from such damaging effects that come from the kisses of those Powerpuff Girls, whose existence is a deterrent to my usual practices of evil and for the purpose of defeating them I created you and your brothers in the first place?"

"The cootie shot just made it so we wouldn't explode," Boomer corrected, a gleeful smile growing on his face. "It used to make us get bigger and tougher, but I think they made us grow in a different way after puberty—"

"Stop!" Mojo said shrilly, throwing his hands over his ears. "Cease! Desist! Refrain from speaking these things which insult the ears of Mojo Jojo, for the ears of Mojo Jojo do not deserve to be abused thus!" He detached one of his hands to point at Boomer. "You will now fall silent and end this dreaming of being intimate with Powerpuff Bubbles, or I will confine you to your room until you are ready to come out and fight the Powerpuff Girls again, for which purpose you are now in the world and how you came to be lounging on my furniture using my television set!"

"Good luck with that." Boomer reclined against the arm of the couch, popping another cheese curl in his mouth. Mojo opened his mouth, closed it, and stomped away towards Brick's room.

"You!" he barked upon opening the door, and was about to say more before he realized there was an extra body in the room. Brick looked over at him with the same disinterested expression, but the surprised, even bashful, pink eyes that met Mojo's were an unwelcome sight. Brick slowly removed his hand from under the tail of Blossom's shirt and instead used it to twirl a strand of her hair around his finger. Her bow was askew, his hat on the floor and his shirt half open.

"Yes?" he asked, and Mojo simply stared, his jaw hanging open. He groped for the doorknob and gently closed the door, backing into the hall. He walked as if in a daze into his room, quietly closed the door there, as well, and waited a full thirty seconds before throwing an all-out tantrum.

He waited another minute after destroying his bedroom before coming out, calmly closing the door, going back into Brick's room, and asking Blossom (who was now more presentable and sitting in Brick's desk chair, a full three feet away from Brick) if she wanted fresh chocolate-chip cookies while she was here.

* * *

A/N: Oh mah gahh, Mojo is SO HARD. SO. HARD. This is my first time ever writing him, and he was a pain in the bootay. Let me know how I did, y'all, because I'm both convinced this is crud and oddly satisfied. That ending...I don't know what happened, but the Mojo in my brain dictated it to be so, and it is so. If it makes y'all feel better, he attempted to poison her. Probably. Maybe. I want cookies...it's two in the morning, holy crap...

Review so I know how I did!


	14. Chapter 14

14. Smile

_4:36 PM_

Buttercup came to slowly. Of about three things she was certain: one, she had one mother of a headache; two, she was drugged; three, she was tied to an idiot.

"Ow," Boomer complained, "that hurt. Where are we?"

"It was supposed to hurt, you imbecile!" A second voice Buttercup had no desire to hear stabbed her sensitive eardrums, and from the windows high above in the wall of the mirrored chamber where Buttercup and Boomer were was the familiar smirk of Princess Morbucks. "I've caught both of you, and your siblings will have no choice but to do my bidding if they want to rescue you!"

"Could you keep the blabbing to a minimum? Your voice is annoying," Buttercup groaned, which earned another earsplitting laugh from Princess.

"I thought so," she said triumphantly, "because everything in that room is dripping in Antidote X! See, my plan was to take all of your powers, but Mojo said that since you—"

"Yeah, yeah, we make our own Chemical X, we know!" Boomer rolled his eyes as Buttercup ground her teeth. "What do you want with us, anyway?"

"Well, I was _supposed_ to catch _all_ of you mangy Powerpuffs," Princess sighed over Boomer's protest, "but the best I could do was you two, so I'll have to make do. Now sit tight and don't move! Not that it'll make a difference anyway," she giggled. "I win, I win, I win!"

Buttercup tested the ropes that tied her hands behind her back and was displeased to see that they held. She was sitting in a chair that was back-to-back with the chair Boomer sat in, and the two of them were tied together with an inordinate amount of soggy rope. Boomer fidgeted for a minute, then sighed.

"How'd she get us?" he asked, and Buttercup shrugged. The last thing she remembered was flying at Princess in the lunch room, getting ready to pound her butt, when something collided with her and she lost consciousness. He sighed and fidgeted some more. After a minute his feet started tapping on the floor. Buttercup let it go on for a count to twenty before snapping.

"Would you cut that out?" she hissed. "My head's about to split open."

"Sorry."

_5:08 PM_

"I'm bored," Boomer whined.

"That's the sixth time you've said that," Buttercup said through gritted teeth. "Find a way to entertain yourself and _stop bugging me._"

"Want to play I Spy?" he suggested.

"What is there to spy? It's a blank room," she pointed out. He shrugged.

"I spy with my little eye something…green."

"It's me," Buttercup intoned, and Boomer gasped.

"Incredible! That's exactly what I saw!" he simpered. "Your turn!"

"No."

"I'll take that as a pass and go again," he replied. "I spy with my little eye something…green."

"It's me," Buttercup growled, and Boomer cheered. "Cut it out."

"You pass again," Boomer said airily, ignoring her more pronounced threats. "I spy with my little eye something…green. This one could be tricky, so keep an open mind…."

_5:22 PM_

Buttercup decided to hang the consequences and jerked her head backwards. It banged into Boomer's, and she had the satisfaction of watching his expression crumple in the reflection on her side of the room.

"Ouch!" He drew the word out into about six syllables. "That _hurt_ a _lot!_"

"I warned you," she said, trying to regain her spinning vision. "One more round of I Spy and I'll have to seriously hurt you."

"Point taken," Boomer winced as his eyes streamed. "What do you want to do, then?"

"Get out of here and away from you," she said immediately. Boomer sighed.

"We can't exactly do that, seeing as how we're stuck here without powers," he replied in an exaggeratedly patient voice. Buttercup forced down her incredibly rude statement.

"There's got to be something," she said, thinking. "Maybe we could shuffle to one of the walls, smash it, and use the glass to cut the ropes."

"Okay, good plan," Boomer nodded, "but how do you expect to break the glass?"

"Your face seems durable enough," Buttercup said stoutly, and started straining to push the chairs towards Boomer's side of the room. He dug in his heels.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, let's talk about this," he protested. "My face is my fortune! I can't risk hurting this!" He raised his eyebrows and smiled broadly at Buttercup, who gagged. He paused. "Y'know, you'd be kinda pretty if you smiled some more."

She started pushing harder with her feet, and Boomer panicked, pushing back.

"Okay, okay, sorry!" he said quickly when she started gaining ground. She stopped pushing and for a minute there was silence.

"Seriously, though, how are we going to get out of here?"

_5:57 PM_

"You've—got—to—be—_kidding _—me!" Buttercup howled as she kicked as hard as she could at the glass. It wasn't budging.

"Maybe it's not actually glass," Boomer suggested, and Buttercup swore. Both she and Boomer were already tired with the task of shuffling the chairs in kicking distance with the wall, and she was doubly exhausted with kicking for ten minutes. "Probably some really shiny metal or something."

"I don't believe it! She thought of everything!" Buttercup screamed, swearing some more when she hit the wall wrong and her foot glanced off to the side.

"Okay, that rules out the walls," Boomer said. "What else do we have?"

Buttercup searched frantically. There was no chance of the ropes loosening or coming off; Boomer had been working on that while she was kicking. There was nothing on the floor except for them, and the chairs, and the windows were too high to try to climb up and break them, too. She slouched back against the chair and felt Boomer leaning his head against hers. She flinched away, and his head fell back before he could right it.

"No touching," she warned.

"Well, this is a pickle, isn't it?" he said thoughtfully. "I guess we're at the mercy of your sisters and my brothers."

"We're never getting out of here," she grumbled, kicking the wall again for good measure. They didn't talk again for another few minutes, and Boomer suddenly burst into song.

"_Don't stop believing! Hold on to that feeling_—"

"Help!" Buttercup shrieked as Boomer upped the volume. "Princess! Get me out of here! Kill me, do whatever you want, just let me out!"

"Hurtful," Boomer pouted. "I'll just have to sing louder."

_6:23 PM_

"The ropes are dry," Boomer noted as Buttercup paused from banging her head once more against the wall.

"And?" she prompted.

He didn't say anything, but the ropes creaked on his side, and Buttercup instantly tried flexing herself. The ropes didn't move.

"Hey!" she complained. "How come mine aren't moving?"

"You must still have a little more time to go before the Antidote wears off," Boomer suggested. "She got you full in the face, and I just caught the backsplash. Y'know, it also helps when you have a syringe of Chemical X in your sock and completely forget about it until now."

Buttercup blinked. "You…you had Chemical X this whole time…and you didn't…remember?" Her words were spoken in utter shock at the extent of Boomer's idiocy. Then she got angry. "_You had it this entire time? We could have been out of here hours ago!_"

"Yeah, funny how that worked out," Boomer laughed as Buttercup screamed again.

"Well, don't just sit there, break the rope and let's go!" Buttercup said eagerly. Boomer grinned, and even in the reflection Buttercup didn't like the look of it.

"Two problems," he said casually. "One, I used it all up on me already. Injected in the foot, so it's been a little slow working its way back up to my heart. Two, you've been nothing but mean to me this entire time, so why should I help you?"

"Because I'll pound your face into pulp if you don't!" she yelled. Boomer tutted.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," he chided. "Try a little niceness, please, and we'll see what happens. I don't have all day before the boost wears off and we're stuck again, so make it snappy."

Buttercup immediately wished a painful death on Princess and took a breath.

"Boomer, would you _please_," she spat the word out, "help me and get us out of here?"

"It's a good start," he yawned, "but I don't hear sincerity. Try again."

"Why don't you just break yourself out and leave me alone?" she muttered.

"Because the wrath of Bubbles is something I'd like to avoid if possible," he explained, "but if you don't try for sincerity I'll have to risk it. Do it again, like you mean it."

Buttercup sighed, sucked it up, and tried again.

"Boomer, I'm s-sorry for being a jerk," she tried to unstick her teeth around the words, "and I would be very grateful if you would help me out. Please."

"Very good," Boomer praised, and Buttercup almost lost it, "but can we try for a smile?"

"What?" she gaped.

"Just smile and I'll break us out in a jiffy," he promised. "Better hurry up; I can feel the Antidote kicking back in…."

Buttercup once more wished painful, _painful_ death on Princess (preferably by rabid badgers) and strained to make the corners of her mouth upturn. It was a struggle, and the end result looked more like a grimace than a smile, but Boomer, who actually felt his power draining, figured he'd gotten more than he could have asked for and snapped the ropes.

"Was that so hard?" he asked as he slung Buttercup, still tied at the hands, over his shoulder and flew up through the window. She growled and he made to drop her, which made her cry out.

"No, it wasn't, okay? Just get us out of here!" she yelped. Boomer's laugh mingled with Princess' enraged shrieks as he blasted a hole through the roof of Princess' safe house and barreled up into open sky. To Buttercup's chagrin both her sisters and Boomer's brothers were there, getting ready to bust through the roof just as they flew out of it.

"For the record," Boomer whispered as the other four screeched to a halt midair and looped around to meet them, "you really do look pretty when you smile."

Buttercup kicked the back of his head, but she smiled again anyway.

* * *

A/N: Oog. This piece was a pain in the butt to figure out, but afterwards I really like where it went. I wrote this simply because I had a hankering for some Buttercup-Boomer interaction that was NOT romantic in any way (though the last line could be interpreted as such, but it's really not; it's like a brother-sister kind of thing, y'know?). I can't believe it took me so long to come to Princess as the main villain in this one, but there ya go.

Reviews be dandy, dawgs.


	15. Chapter 15

15. Silence

"Oh, Blossom, to think that this very night I shall see my dear Mr. Joseph again!" Bubbles exclaimed, wriggling as her sister tucked another forget-me-not bloom in her hair.

"You are very lucky," Blossom smiled in agreement. "Mr. Joseph is a fine gentleman."

"And so very handsome," Bubbles sighed, standing and twirling about the room. The pale blue muslin swished about her bare feet. Buttercup promptly sat down in the chair before the vanity and indicated for Blossom to begin styling her hair, as well.

"And you, Buttercup?" Blossom asked, braiding her dark hair away from her face. "Will we have the pleasure of being introduced to your mystery beaux?"

"He is a mystery for a reason, dear sister, and I shall thank you to leave it at that," Buttercup replied, though her eyes glowed with pride. Bubbles giggled.

"Perhaps he is not so great a mystery to us after all, Buttercup; Mr. Joseph talks often of his elder brother's charming new acquaintance," she fluttered her eyelashes at Buttercup, who merely smiled in return. "Oh, Blossom, if only I could see you so happy!"

"If only there was such a man in the world to meet your lofty aspirations," Buttercup added. Blossom received the odd green feathers Buttercup passed to her and fastened them into the elegant knot in the back of her hair.

"My aspirations are not lofty, merely of a higher standard," she sniffed. "Buttercup, I don't recall ever seeing these around the house before. Are they new?"

"Gifts," she corrected, "from my particular friend, gained from his voyages to the new world. He thought they might suit me."

"So they are a token of love from a sailor," Bubbles tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Do you know, Mr. Joseph's elder brother is a naval officer, made quite rich from the war and recently back in the country…."

"You do realize, dearest sister, that until you reveal the identity of your 'particular friend' that we will not stop until we know for ourselves?" Blossom teased, standing Buttercup up to brush any wrinkles out of her dress, tonight white with green flowers.

"Well, then, all this suspense will make the big reveal that much more gratifying, won't it?" Buttercup smiled back. "Really, Bubbles, I wish you would stop your investigation; when I feel the time is come, I will tell you."

"Before or after your elopement?" Bubbles laughed.

"Bubbles, please don't make jokes about such things," Blossom reprimanded sharply. "Well, girls, you are both looking quite beautiful this evening. I believe my work here is done."

"Blossom, are you sure we can't persuade you to join us?" Bubbles asked. "It is, after all, the most fashionable assembly of the year."

"You haven't accompanied us to a public assembly in ages," Buttercup frowned. "Are you sure you're well?"

"I am, quite well," Blossom nodded, though the motion was far too mechanical. "I shall hear all about the great lark it was when you get home. Hurry, now, Father can't keep the carriage waiting all night."

With a final goodbye and frown in her direction Bubbles and Buttercup made their way to the carriage downstairs, Blossom watching from the upstairs window. Once the carriage was out of sight she sat down on her bed, sighing.

Not a full hour passed before another carriage arrived; Blossom, who was occupied in composing another of her morbid poems, was startled when a solid knock was heard at her chamber door.

"It is only me, my dear," the familiar voice of her friend Lady Bellum spoke on the other side. "May I come in?"

"Yes," Blossom called, and in swept Lady Bellum, very finely dressed for the ball that evening. She grasped Blossom's hand as she sat next to her.

"Blossom, whatever are you doing?" Lady Bellum asked. "Your father informed me you were taken ill this evening and would not be in attendance, yet here you seem in perfect health."

"I am not so very ill as he says," Blossom allowed, "only, I cannot enter into society until I am quite sure…." She trailed off, and Lady Bellum squeezed her hand.

"My dear, it has been nearly six months since the incident," she said gently. "You must not let one disappointment ruin you."

"How mildly you put it," Blossom murmured, her hand wandering to her throat, whereupon a gold chain was still clasped. "Disappointment is the word for when a dinner party is short a friend, or a tear is found in your favorite gown. What word can be applied, Lady Bellum, when all of one's hopes and passions are dashed in a single moment?"

"Lord Ravencroft has not been in society any more than you," Lady Bellum began, and Blossom stifled a sob, "therefore it is unlikely that you will see him at the assembly. Come, child, get dressed. The night is young yet."

"I cannot," Blossom shook her head with all the violence of her alarm, "I cannot! What if I should see him again? I am not prepared, my heart could not bear it!"

"Miss Whitecastle," Lady Bellum said sternly, "I believed you to be the sort of woman who would not let her judgment be clouded by silly notions, and here you are proving me a liar! The probability of meeting with Lord Ravencroft again is astronomically small. I have intelligence that he has not even been in town these months of estrangement. You are being quite ridiculous."

Blossom dried her hysterical tears and fingered once more the chain around her neck. Lady Bellum tenderly put her hand under her chin to turn her face upwards.

"You are young and lovely, my dear, and the world is full of worthy young men prepared for your return. The time to grieve for your heartbreak is passed; now you can return to the company of your friends and acquaintance and once more be merry."

Blossom blew her nose. "I thank you, Lady Bellum," she sniffed, "for taking the time to see me. I see that my actions have, perhaps, been shockingly at odds with the expectations of my friends and family." She stood. "If you would be so good as to send Mary in, I think I am ready."

"Very well, dear girl," Lady Bellum smiled, and left the room to find the maid. With Lady Bellum's direction Blossom was dressed, her hair curled and arranged, her face washed, and looking as pretty as ever. She allowed a white rose to be woven into her curls, and only then did Lady Bellum proclaim her to be ready and escorted her downstairs to her waiting carriage. The chain she kept, and all the way to the assembly she fretted with it between her fingers.

* * *

"Lord Ravencroft graces us with his presence," Captain Butch Joseph smiled as his eldest brother walked into the drawing room. "To what do we owe this honor?"

"I need a special occasion to call on my brothers?" Brick Joseph, Lord Ravencroft, raised his eyebrow.

"You've been away for quite some time, brother," Reverend Boomer Joseph stood, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "We were beginning to think we were forgotten."

"It is business that called me away, and now I am back," Brick replied, returning the gesture with a hint of a smile.

"Business, or Miss Whitecastle?" Butch hinted. "I heard tell there was a shocking falling-out betwixt you."

"You will kindly refrain from speaking her name," Brick frowned.

"I think you'll find that the name Miss Whitecastle is often uttered in connection with the name Mr. Joseph," Boomer swelled with pride. "You see, your Miss Whitecastle happens to have two very available, unattached, well-looking sisters that Captain Joseph and I are unable to avoid seeing in public places."

"And…have you seen her?" Brick asked.

"Afraid not," Butch sighed. "Miss Blossom Whitecastle keeps to herself these many long months. Not a soul in society has seen either seen or heard her. Pity."

"Come with us to the assembly tonight, brother," Boomer pleaded. "I've heard it on good authority that Miss Whitecastle shall not be in attendance."

"Yes, this could be your chance to find another pretty young lady to waste your affections on," Butch laughed. "Imagine the sensation you shall cause when you are announced. I fear there will not be an available young woman within earshot who will not find that her knees have failed her and a husband who will not fear for his wife."

"I will come," Brick inclined his head, "if only to see an old acquaintance with whom I must speak."

"There's a good lad," Butch slapped his brother on the back. "Here we are again, the Joseph brothers in society! What a riot we shall cause!"

"Not much of one, I'm afraid, Captain," Boomer winked, "not if your Miss Whitecastle has anything to say on the subject. I say, are you and she going to make your engagement public yet?"

"That depends, Reverend, are you going to propose to your Miss Whitecastle?" Butch winked. Brick scowled.

"I do not much like my brothers obligating me to come to functions at which I must certainly see Miss Whitecastle," he complained. "It is most unkind."

"Your problem, m'lud, not ours," Butch sniffed. "Come on, then, gents, let's be off! If we do not arrive soon all the prettiest girls shall have their cards already filled."

"You make a fair point, Captain," Boomer hastily relieved his cane of the servant who held it. "We must leave at once, post haste!"

* * *

"Blossom, it is so very good to see you," Miss Robin Schneider shook Blossom's hand, smiling. "I was afraid you'd disappeared entirely!"

"Despite my best efforts, I am here," Blossom smiled back, pleased to find the effort in the motion was not as great as she supposed it would be. "What news, Robin?"

"Nothing so very great, I'm afraid," Robin sighed. "The biggest piece of gossip is the rather public romance between Bubbles and Mr. Joseph. You know, he has the parish at Croft Park, and the most generous living I've ever heard of for a clergyman."

"Do tell," Blossom encouraged, doing her best to pay no mind to the name and location of the parish.

"Nearly two thousand a year," Robin replied, sighing once more. "Lord Ravencroft's economy is astonishing. He seems to have increased his living to—are you well, Blossom?" she broke off her statement, much to Blossom's relief.

"Yes," she nodded. "I was merely taken aback by the amount Mr. Joseph receives, is all."

Robin gave her a scrutinizing look, but as she opened her mouth to speak the crowd around them fell silent.

"Lord Ravencroft, Captain Joseph, and Reverend Joseph,"

Blossom felt the heat rising in her cheeks, and despite herself began craning for a look. The three brothers seemed to be gliding through the crowd effortlessly, the younger two with searching eyes, the elder with the composure of a mountain. He passed through a gap between two ladies in front of Blossom and paused, allowing her time to drink her fill of him. He looked much the same, his fiery hair bound and austere line of his mouth complimenting the foreboding in his eyes. His dress was as fine as it ever was, his posture rigid. All too soon he passed, and Blossom regained her senses, taking her leave of Robin and attempting to find Lady Bellum.

The two met in the tea room, Blossom's complexion quite scarlet and Lady Bellum apologetic.

"He is here," Blossom breathed, sinking into a chair. "He is here, Lady Bellum, I cannot possibly remain while he is here—"

"My dear, I'm afraid you must," Lady Bellum took her hands. "Courage, Blossom. I had no idea he would be here, but now that he is, I'm afraid you have no choice but to be strong or be rude to your hosts. It is still unlikely that he will seek you out, considering…."

"Yes," Blossom nodded slowly, "yes, I see." However, she still felt faint, fanning herself with the silk fan he had gotten for her at the beginning of their courtship. If she remained here, where people were few, she was sure to remain safe. It was a large party, she reasoned, and there was no reason why he should approach her after the way their acquaintance had ended.

* * *

"Dreadful news, Brick," Boomer said, tapping his brother's arm. On his own arm was a blond beauty Brick could only presume was Miss Bubbles Whitecastle. "Oh, forgive me—Miss Whitecastle, my brother Lord Ravencroft. Brick, Miss Whitecastle."

"Charmed," Brick inclined his head as Miss Whitecastle curtsied, "but what dreadful news?"

"I've just had it from Bubbles—sorry, Miss Whitecastle—that Miss Blossom Whitecastle is indeed here tonight," Boomer said with wide eyes.

"I was so very shocked when she arrived, because she'd told Buttercup and I that she would not be coming," Miss Whitecastle began babbling. "I assume our friend Lady Bellum had a hand in it, and it is a good thing that she is here, but—oh, excuse me, I'm going on and on," she apologized. Then her brow furrowed. "Pardon me, but why is it dreadful news that my sister is here? Are you acquainted, Lord Ravencroft?"

"Yes," Brick answered automatically. "If you will excuse me." He bowed and disappeared into the crowd.

Here! Here of all places, when he had good authority that she would not come! His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for a glimpse of auburn hair, a flash of rosy eyes. She was not with the dancers, nor in a chair around the edge of the wall. He made himself pause, forced himself to think clearly. He knew her; where would she be if she was at a ball and did not want to be found?

The answer became clear to him at once, and in that same moment his feet began to carry him to her.

* * *

"Pardon me." Blossom was roused from her reflection by a familiar voice. "Good evening, Miss Whitecastle."

"Lord Ravencroft," she breathed, standing and curtsying despite herself. The movements were done with all the stiffness of surprise, her neck bent more at an angle than arched, her eyes fixed firmly on the rich carpet.

Lady Bellum excused herself quietly. Blossom could hardly raise her eyes to meet his.

"May I?" he asked, indicating the empty chair by her, and she nodded, dropping with little finesse into her own. No words were spoken for a long while, but each party had the opportunity to cast furtive looks in each other's direction. He looked well, very well, all but the dark shadows under his eyes. She became increasingly conscious of the fan in her hand and the chain about her neck.

A full quarter of an hour passed when Lord Ravencroft abruptly turned to her.

"Might I have the pleasure of the next dance, Miss Whitecastle?"

At last given the opportunity to look him full in the face, she studied him for a half-second.

"You may," she replied, dipping her head once more. He stood and held out his hand, and with no small amount of trepidation she set her fan aside and allowed him to lead her out. The couples were lining up and talking amongst themselves; when Blossom and Lord Ravencroft took their places an unnatural quiet fell, which turned into buzzing that continued even when the music started.

* * *

She had never looked more beautiful, Brick reflected as Miss Whitecastle danced. Perhaps their estrangement was a contributing factor to this fact. She would rarely meet his eyes, or look in his face for a moment or two only to look away and blush. Her dress was white, just as when he had first had the pleasure of being introduced. Her ribbon, pink that happy time long ago, was now a dark red. He also saw, with a great swelling of his heart, that she still wore his necklace around her pretty throat.

"Are we to remain in silence all night, Lord Ravencroft?" she asked, starting him from his musings.

"If it would suit you, Miss Whitecastle, we may speak of whatever you please," he replied. Her cheeks grew pink again. "As it stands, there are far too many prying eyes for my taste."

"Yes, I do wish they would stop staring," she murmured. They were again quiet for another beat or two.

"You look well," he said, searching for something to converse of. "Very well."

"As do you, Lord Ravencroft," she replied. Another few beats passed. Though the room was becoming unbearably hot, crowded with Town's social elite, Brick was quite sure there was no one else in the room who could possibly hold his attention as she did. Her eyes would flit from his face to the floor often. The constant action made him discontent. Once, there had been no two people so immersed in each other. Clearly, that heady time was over, though he felt he must address the issue so as to clear the air between them. They were to be relations soon, after all.

"Miss Whitecastle," Brick began, but the song ended, and she curtsied and was gone again before he knew what it was he wanted to say in detail.

* * *

"The worst is over," Blossom said, sighing deeply to Lady Bellum. "I can be in his presence as though he were no more than an acquaintance."

"I'm sure you can, my dear, but why ever are you hiding behind there?" Lady Bellum murmured to Blossom behind her hiding place, a stately pillar.

"I just want to be sure to avoid any quarrel," she replied. "He was on the verge of saying something when the dance ended. I would for all the world that he would not speak of what was."

"People do not solve problems by avoiding them," Lady Bellum said wisely. "If you insist on behaving in this childish manner I should be quite embarrassed to be seen with you. Come out from behind there at once."

Reluctantly Blossom gave up her perch and breathed deeply, twisting her fingers.

"Lady Bellum, I really cannot stay another moment," she said. "I am fatigued. Pray do not force me to remain where I am unhappy."

"Very well, my dear," Lady Bellum said gently, taking pity on her, "this once I shall relent. In the future, Miss Whitecastle, you know you must not quit a ball before the end simply because of Lord Ravencroft. If you are to be truly free of his influence, you must steel yourself to his presence."

Blossom nodded wearily, making for the door.

"The carriage is just around the corner, Miss Whitecastle," Lady Bellum called.

"Do not trouble yourself. I shall walk. Home is only a short quarter mile off," Blossom replied. "The exercise will do me good."

"I fear for your safety, my dear," Lady Bellum hinted, to which Blossom smiled.

"What harm shall come to me in Town? It is winter, and I can outrun any would-be attacker. I thank you for your concern, but I assure you it is quite unfounded. Good night." With this statement in mind she quitted the assembly, intent on reaching home and having a nice cup of tea and a long think.

* * *

Brick saw Miss Whitecastle exit the hall unaccompanied and found his mind growing uneasy. He followed her and found his suspicion to be correct; she was walking as opposed to taking a carriage. Duty, he reasoned, surely called on him to offer her his protection, if nothing else. A woman could not walk through Town in the middle of the night. To do so would tempt fate, surely.

"Miss Whitecastle!" he called, and to his relief she heard him, turning to face him.

"Lord Ravencroft," she curtsied. He jogged to catch up with her.

"Do you make it a habit to walk through dark cities, Miss Whitecastle?" he asked.

"Home is not far off, and I am in need of the exertion," she replied, her voice prim and proper and perfectly in order.

"If you are so determined, then allow me to accompany you." He offered his arm, which she accepted after a moment's deliberation. Mist stole across the streets of Town, but the sky above was uncluttered as a bright moon shone. Brick found himself glancing often in her direction, just as frequently composing a compliment about her looks in the moonlight that died on its way to his throat. It had not been this way before; before, words of love came easily and flowed freely.

Six months ago, he was in Town to keep a careful watch on his brother Butch's reentry into society, to make sure he did not slip into his old habits. It was then, at the first ball he attended, that he first laid eyes on Miss Blossom Whitecastle. Upon being introduced their love grew like wildfire, though kept secret from even her sisters. There was no disguising the truth from his brothers, who saw everything even as they became acquainted with Miss Whietcastle's sisters, but the only person she related her love to was her friend Lady Bellum. As quickly as their love began it ended, breaking cleanly as he returned to Croft Park to attend the business of his father's old gambling debts and she hid herself from the world. For the life of him, he knew not when it all went so wrong.

The woman on his arm he knew more than he knew himself and no more than a stranger all at once, an enigma with a beloved face. Though, before they parted and could become mere strangers once more, he must speak to her of what happened. He could not rest easily otherwise.

Hesitantly, he opened his mouth and began to speak.

* * *

Blossom was in her own world as they walked, transported back to six months prior. How easy it had been then, to suppose herself so perfectly happy nothing could shatter it? Though it was a short time, she felt herself to be years wiser now. Upon first glance between them it was love; this she knew. How could it not be, when at first his temperament and character seemed so complimentary to her own?

"Miss Whitecastle, if you will allow me, I must speak with you," he said, interrupting her memories.

"Sir, I hardly think it is worth mentioning," she replied, "that what is done is done. No amount of talking or rationalizing will change it."

"I do not wish to change it," he shook his head, "for what happened was the happiest time of my life. I only wish to sort out what it was that brought it to an untimely end."

"What is there to sort?" she sighed. "It was not to be. You made it perfectly clear."

"As I recall," he replied with heat, "it was you who broke off our engagement, madam."

"It was you, sir, who did not inform me that you are previously betrothed," she answered with growing passion. "I ask you, Lord Ravencroft, what can you be thinking in directly going against the dying wish of a tender parent?"

"The previous Lord Ravencroft was not a tender parent, as is supposed," he said darkly. "His dying wish was for me to marry Miss Morbucks, yes, but it was not a wish I ever intended to follow. My dear cousin may be wealthy, but her character is hardly worth mentioning and my late father's was no better." He paused as though gathering his thoughts, at which point Blossom felt ready to make an interjection.

"Tender or no, it is written in his will, is it not?" Blossom said. "If you do not marry Miss Morbucks, the estate will fall to your uncle. Is this not true?"

"It is," he nodded, "but how did you come to be in possession of this knowledge?"

"I was informed by Miss Morbucks herself," Blossom fought a grimace in remembrance. "At any rate, you deceived me, Lord Ravencroft, in leading me to believe you were free to marry as you wished. If your father wished it, if he took such pains to be sure his will is obeyed, I cannot—that is, I am unwilling to be the cause of a good man losing the birthright he so deserves."

They reached her home, but Blossom took no notice other than to stop walking, looking into Lord Ravencroft's face fully to judge his expression. The shadows obscured it, and she grew fearful of him. What now could be said?

* * *

At last, Brick understood her. She had not broken off their engagement out of selfishness or because of some other unworthy reason, but out of regard for him and his position. He studied her face, illuminated in the moonlight.

"My most beloved Blossom," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "here, this long unhappy period, I dared to think your character inconstant and false in my anger. I could not fathom the true goodness of your soul until now." He took her hand, which she seemed about to snatch away but allowed him to retain. "When you were accosted by Miss Morbucks, I was holed up in my study with Mr. Clark, attempting to break my father's will. The wretched girl could not have come at a worse time, but I rejoice now to tell you that a way has been found, and I am free." He dropped to his knees. "Sweetest Blossom, if you will, allow me to renew those sentiments I vowed to you in the flower of my happiness. Allow me to tell you, once more, how ardently I love you and wish to be united with you, if you can find it in your generous heart to accept me again." He awaited her answer with his heart jumping about in his passion, looking into her open face.

At his words the distrust and hurt in Blossom's heart was blasted into nothing. Every tender feeling poured back into her heart and filled her to bursting.

"Brick," she said his name for the first time in many months, "I confess I found terrible fault with your character when first Miss Morbucks informed me of the betrothal, but never have I found you more faultless than I do now. I will marry you, if only you can forgive my foolishness."

"Your conduct has been flawless in this ordeal," he stood, a bright smile crossing his face. He pressed her hands to his lips. "I am to be the most joyful of men from this moment on." He let their hands fall and looked her in the face. "Mrs. Blossom Joseph, Lady Ravencroft. How well it sounds!"

"How well indeed!" Blossom laughed. They parted, as was only correct, but never had Blossom gone to bed with a fuller heart. Brick, for his part, could not go home for his restless energy, and wandered the streets of Town until his brothers found him and conveyed him back to Joseph House.

The triple engagements of the sisters Whitecastle and the brothers Joseph was announced the very next day, and though many whispers would circulate the fashionable world, no joy could be matched to the superior happiness of Blossom and Brick, who, though once stumbling in their journey, found each other now to be the most perfect match such that no rumor could harm their felicity.

As it is said in the old stories, they lived happily forever afterwards.

* * *

A/N: GAH, THE STUPIDITY OF FFN FOR ERASING MY LOVELY LINE BREAKS! Okay, so it doesnt EXACTLY fit the prompt. So sue me. I quite enjoyed writing it, although Regency is a PAIN to attempt to make believable. I've given up on my prose ever comparing, but hopefully the dialogue does it enough justice. Brick is, I know, a little OOC, but, come on. He's a Regency gentleman in this world. As I've said, the one thing I know how to do pretty darn good is AU; well, pretty darn well good enough for my own taste. ;) And, yes, I know their names are different, but since their names are so difficult to use in a Regency piece, I fiddled with them a little. For my buddy **shadowinthedark13**, who shall recieve this on two different sites (also on my deviantART account, which is accessible on my profile). Thanks for all the support, girlie. I hope you like it. :D

Review and tell me how to improve on my Regency and PPG writing as a whole.


	16. Chapter 16

16. Questioning

"He's here, BC," Mitch tapped on Buttercup's desk. "Ready to go?"

"I can handle him," Buttercup stood, straightening her jacket. "You keep out of it. I don't want him smashing your mug. Need to keep it pretty for tonight."

"BC—" Mitch protested, only to be cut off by Buttercup pecking him on the cheek and sweeping down to the interrogation chambers. After a moment Mitch scurried after her.

"Alright, but I'm keeping watch outside the door," he said stubbornly. "Holler if you need backup." He planted his arm across the doorway just as Buttercup was about to open the door. "I mean it. Keep your nose clean and don't take a swing at him before he does. Okay?"

"I'm almost hurt by your lack of faith, Mitchy," Buttercup grinned. "Don't you trust me at all?"

"Five dollars says you deck him before twenty minutes are up," Mitch chortled, letting Buttercup inside. The man behind the table smirked as Buttercup took her chair on the other side.

"Hey there, kitten," he said, in that slow, melting drawl of his. "It's been a while since I seen the inside of this place. New paint?"

Buttercup didn't respond, carefully flipping through the file of her current case. He sighed, leaning back in his chair.

"That your new cuddle bunny out there? He's just adorable, the real bee's knees," he sneered, flicking his chin in the direction of the door, where Mitch was studiously watching the scene. "Never thought you'd be into the nancy types, kitten."

"He's twice the man you ever were, Butch," Buttercup muttered, straightening up. "Where were you the night of the sixth?"

"The sixth?" Butch scratched his chin. "Well, that's so far back, see, I don't quite remember. Ask me again later when you feel like being a lady again."

"I'll ask again. Where were you the night of the sixth?" Buttercup repeated, undeterred (for now). Butch took his sweet time replying, pulling a cigar out of his jacket pocket and lighting up.

"Probably doing something that'd get me thrown back in your comfortable accommodations," he took a long draw on his cigar and let the smoke ease its way out of his mouth. "Why do you ask?"

"Someone was murdered that night, and the prints we could lift on the knife in his gut matched yours," Buttercup waved the folder in front of her nose to circulate fresh air. Butch laughed.

"I'm hurt, kitten. You know I don't use knives," he took the cigar out of his mouth. "I don't reckon your nancy boy out there can please you like I could. Naw, he ain't old enough to be out from behind his mama's skirts."

"And who's the one I'm seeing right now, honey? Certainly ain't you," Buttercup grinned sardonically as Butch's smile froze a little on his face. "You just can't stand that I picked him over you, can you? I bet no woman's ever told you no before."

"I know you didn't before Nancy tried pulling a fast one on me," Butch winked at Mitch, and Buttercup let a slow, steady breath out.

"If you don't remember where you were the sixth, Mr. Him—"

"Please, babe, Mr. Him is my old man," Butch blew smoke deliberately in her face. "Just call me Butch."

"If you don't remember where you were, _Mr. Him_, then I suppose you'd better hire yourself a good lawyer. I got enough evidence to lock you up for good this time," Buttercup yanked the cigar out of Butch's mouth and stuck it in her own, walking around the table and lounging on the edge. "Unless you wanna talk about what really went down…?"

Butch didn't say anything for a long moment, his eyes roving up and down Buttercup's figure. "Gotta say, kitten, you do look fine in a pair of trousers. 'Course, I can't say you look your best, coming from someone who's seen you in your skivvies—"

Buttercup took the cigar out of her mouth, calmly returned to her chair, then picked it up and jammed it under the door handle. Mitch started struggling immediately, but the door held as Buttercup hauled Butch up by his collar and slammed him against the wall. The plaster cracked as Butch's shoulders banged into it.

"Oh, my," Butch laughed, "I've been a bad boy, haven't I, Detective?"

"June sixth at ten-fifteen Harry Pitts was killed by a stab wound to the stomach," Buttercup hissed. "I matched the prints myself. I know you did it. Harry was a good man, with a family. What did he do to deserve it, huh, Butch?"

"You are so self-righteous, you know, kitten?" Butch smirked. "You think the world is black and white, but you and I both know there are grey spots everywhere. Harry was a grey spot, and now he's a stiff. You're welcome, society."

Buttercup glared, then swung Butch around and slammed him on the tabletop. His head cracked against the wood, and though his mouth was still upturned, his eyes rolled back a little.

"Bet you didn't know about Harry's trafficking, didja?" he gurgled as Buttercup pulled his collar tight around his throat. "Bet you didn't know he owed us some dough, didja? He was a thief and a conman. Isn't it your job to take care of thieves and conmen, kitten?"

"Stop," Buttercup said through gritted teeth, "calling me that."

"Oh, so you _didn't_ know about that," Butch grinned. "Poor Mrs. Pitts and the kids'll just have to find a way to cough up the rest of the money. With a face like hers, the missus will do just fine in a circus, don'tcha think?"

Buttercup's eyes hardened. Without another word she grabbed the cigar, shoving it back between her teeth. She loosened Butch's tie and undid a few of the buttons.

"Ooh, are you going to arrest me, officer?" Butch wiggled his eyebrows. Buttercup spared him a scowl before jamming the smoking end of the cigar against Butch's bare chest. His arms came up as she ground the soot into the burn, his fist knocking against her jaw and sending her sprawling against the wall. Butch didn't scream; he never screamed when he was truly in pain. He kept panting, though, and touching the burn with tentative fingers.

"That stings," he muttered. Buttercup got to her feet. "Never thought you'd actually do it, kitten. Bravo."

"I told you I would," she replied, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. "One day, I told you I was gonna do it." She took the handcuffs out of her pocket. "Butch Him, you're under arrest for the murder of Harry Pitts."

"Try it," he challenged. She made to grab him and he ducked, and every jab and grab she made at him he moved out of the way, that smile spreading on his face. Mitch's face was still glued to the window, the doorknob rattling with his efforts.

"Here's a lesson, kitten," Butch said, grabbing Buttercup's arm as she swung at him and pulling both of her arms against him. He grasped her wrists in one hand and smoothed her hair back with the other. "You can play your little cops and robbers game in here, but out there, it's my world. You put me in, I can break out. You think Nancy out there is completely clean? You think any cop in this town is clean? Trust me, you got no idea what's going on. I can tell you honestly that every cop in this joint but you has been paid off at one time or another, and paid good. You wanna know how many covered up murders?"

Buttercup made to smash her foot into his groin but he was too quick, twisting her back around and against the wall. His hot breath hovered for a moment at her neck, then the familiar weight of his tongue traced itself across her throat.

"I'll see you around, kitten," he murmured. For two seconds his lips mashed against hers, and then he pulled the chair away and was gone, leaving Buttercup to slide down in a heap and Mitch to rush in and see what was wrong.

"What happened?" he asked worriedly. "His back was to me, I couldn't see what he did. BC, are you—"

"Don't worry about me, go after him!" Buttercup snapped, though it lacked some of her former fury. As usual, Butch knew exactly how to shake her up. He played a stupid sonata pushing her buttons every time. She stood up, dusted herself off, and walked out of the room, pausing only to pick up Butch's cigar. No need to let a good thing go to waste, she reasoned, sticking it in her mouth and lighting it again.

One day, she thought as she stared out the window of her office, one of these days she'd catch him good and send him where he couldn't grin and charm his way out of anything. That would be the day she finally won. She massaged her throat. The place he'd touched felt like a warm slash of something just bordering pain. She had the uneasy feeling that it wouldn't be the last time she felt it.

For a moment, just below her window, she saw him, tipping his hat and winking at her. She scowled and he laughed, blowing her a kiss. Then he got into a car and disappeared again. She ground her teeth on the end of the cigar. By the time Mitch came back in she was spitting out the shreds and tossing the stub that was left in her waste basket.

* * *

A/N: Oy. Moar 1920s!PPGness, although this one doesn't quite catch a lot of the spirit of the times. Yes, they used fingerprinting back then, it just wasn't as precise as it is now. And, also yes, women wore slacks; although they were more of a casual thing, Buttercup here wears a suit every day to be taken seriously in her male-dominated field (although her sisters are in the same field and they're taken seriously just fine in skirts...I think it's just a Buttercup thing). I am enjoying this concept WAY more than I should. Nyegh...I just killed Harry Pitts...

Reviews be epic, y'all. Just sayin'.


	17. Chapter 17

17. Blood

"Aha!" Mojo Jojo cried as he leapt into the home of the Powerpuff Girls, wielding an alarmingly large laser gun and a belt holding several cans of spray paint. "With the absence of the Powerpuff Girls and the Professor, I am free to deface, ruin, and otherwise defile the sanctity of the home of the Powerpuff girls, whose absence from this place of residence is most convenient for my purposes of evil and vandalism. The house now being deserted by those who commonly live there, I, Mojo Jojo, may return to the place of my genesis as evil genius Mojo Jojo and thereby stomp, scribble, and smash all memories of my previous existence as mild-mannered monkey Jojo, pet of Professor Utonium, in whose lab was created the—"

A quiet sob cut off his gleeful ramblings. He fell silent immediately, trying his best to hear out the source of the sound.

"Impossible," Mojo muttered, "for I was informed that the house would be empty; that is, I was told the Professor and his wretched brats were out of the house and therefore the residence of the aforementioned people, whose existence is most irritating to me, would be empty while I destroy it. This tearful sound does not indicate that the house is uninhabited for the moment and therefore free for me, Mojo Jojo, to run rampant in destructive abandon."

He followed his ears to the kitchen, where a girl no older than ten sat slumped on the ground, cradling her hand to her chest and bent over so her head touched her knees. Mojo kept his gun ready, just in case, and edged towards the girl.

"What is this?" he asked himself. "Though normally I relish in the tears of the Powerpuff Girls, this crying, when I have not caused it myself, is most puzzling and disturbing, for I did not plan on witnessing the tears of one of the Powerpuff Girls until after they had returned to their home and seen what I had done to it." He inched closer. "What is wrong?"

Bubbles sniffed and lifted her head, holding out her hand. Mojo peered around the barrel of his gun and saw the streak of red sliding down her finger. There was a nasty-looking bread knife on the counter with a tiny smear of red on it, and a block of cheese she'd tried to cut through.

"It appears you have injured your hand by not using the correct tool to make yourself an afternoon snack, which I admit I find humorous, but what is it you want me to do about it?" Mojo asked as Bubbles simply stared at him with her tear-filled blue eyes.

"Fix it," she said in a small voice.

"I cannot fix it, as I am not a trained medical professional," Mojo shook his head. "The best thing to do would be to rinse it off and bandage it, at which point I would be glad if you would leave this place of residence and rejoin your family so that I may continue with my plan of wreaking damage upon your house."

She didn't respond except to sniff pitifully, and Mojo sighed, putting his gun down. Careful not to get the red stuff leaking from Bubbles on his spotless gloves, he guided her towards the sink and turned the warm water on. She flinched when the water came into contact with her skin, a flinch that sent her elbow into Mojo's ribs and made him wheeze, but she kept her hand under the water until it ran clear. He then turned off the water, carefully dried her finger, and fetched the Band-Aids and Neosporin from the cabinet over the sink as Bubbles instructed. Once her cut (a relatively small and shallow one, as far as Mojo could tell) was swathed in a Band-Aid decorated with rainbows and hearts, he stepped back, reaching for his gun again.

She held out her hand again, and Mojo frowned.

"What more do you want me to do? I have washed, disinfected, and bandaged your small cut, and given the proper amount of time (which, with Chemical X, should be in a few minutes), it will be perfectly healed, and then we may once more engage in battle. Your finger is fine, for I, Mojo Jojo, have doctored it to the best of my ability."

"Kiss it," she said in that irritatingly sweet voice of hers. Mojo gaped.

"What? _Kiss_ it? I will not! That is not a medical procedure to assist in your getting better, and would do little more than humiliate me and put more germs on your healing finger! Contrary to what parents tell their children, kisses do not heal their boo-boos! They merely spread disease and—and—" he found himself losing steam as she looked at him, so infuriatingly adorable and begging with those ridiculous bug-eyes of hers he couldn't keep refusing her.

"It won't get better if you don't kiss it," she said. Mojo pinched his eyebrows together and sighed yet more deeply than before. He tentatively took her wrist in hand, screwed his eyes shut, and gave the Band-Aid a quick peck.

"There, I did it. Now may we get down to business?" Mojo asked bad-temperedly, to which Bubbles smiled, nodded, and kicked him through the window to the street outside.

"Curses," he groaned, his voice muffled around his bruised jaw.

* * *

A/N: This was originally supposed to be a rather dark Blues piece that entailed skin-slicing, but Mojo crept in there and suddenly I was left with this fluffy thing. What was I to do but stroke it and cater to its every lovable whim? I regret nothing. I am shameless in my liking of this piece.

Reviews? I know those. They're the nice and constructive things people other than myself say, right?


	18. Chapter 18

18. Rainbow

"Ready to go?" Blossom asked, adjusting her glasses. Buttercup nodded shortly and Bubbles sighed, tugging her braid over her shoulder and kneading it.

"I don't like this," Bubbles said. "It feels too much like a trap."

"Of course it's a trap," Blossom replied briskly. "We wouldn't be going if it wasn't."

"Drew isn't going to be happy I'm missing his recital," Bubbles frowned. "Poor kid. He's been practicing for weeks."

"Sacrifices have to be made. You know that," Blossom touched her sister's shoulder. "Drew will be okay. They all will be."

"Are we doing the right thing?" Buttercup asked suddenly. Blossom looked at her. Out of the three of them age hadn't touched her quite so obviously; the lines around her mouth and under her eyes were the only outward signs. She had a fondness of complaining about her aching joints lately, but today she hadn't said a word about them. "It just seems really stupid. You _know_ Him's expecting us to waltz right in."

"Either we go to him, or he comes to us, and I'd rather keep him away from our families," Blossom explained. Buttercup nodded wearily. "It's not like we're leaving things unprotected. The Boys are still around."

"And the girls?" Bubbles asked. Her silvery-yellow braid was becoming knobby with her constant twisting. "I don't think they're ready. I really don't."

"They're sixteen. We were saving the world at five," Blossom said, but she ran a hand through her white-winged hair. "They know what they're doing."

Still Bubbles hesitated, and Blossom didn't blame her. Jackie, Janey, and Jezebel hadn't been training to fill their mothers' places for more than a few months, and the cousins weren't exactly clicking together right away. Jackie and Janey couldn't go five minutes without squabbling, and Jezebel didn't do much more than the bare minimum.

"If we don't leave now we'll miss our deadline," Buttercup said softly, checking her watch. "The kids'll be home in a few minutes."

Blossom looked to Bubbles, who sighed, nodded, and floated into the air. Her sisters followed, and after a moment they kicked it into overdrive, splashing the familiar rays of light across the sky behind them. It was a long way to Hell; they'd need all the time and power they could get.

Bubbles looked back at the rainbow they left behind. Something about it made her smile.

For nearly forty years the Powerpuffs had protected Townsville. Forty years had seen marriages, babies, teenagers, deaths, fights, and victories. Jackie, Janey, and Jezebel would be okay. They were their mothers' daughters, after all.

For forty years there had been a rainbow over Townsville. It was a comfort to all three sisters to know that there always would be one, long after they were gone.

* * *

A/N: Muuuuhhhh. I'm not entirely sure what happened with this piece; I had the last line in mind when I wrote this, and suddenly this THING appeared. Yes, I created PPG!Spawn. It's what I do. I COULDN'T HELP IT! D8 Actually, I really like the new girls; I've been doodling them for a while. They tight. If I ever decide to do fic for them, this would be like a prologue of sorts. Of course, if I decide to do fic for them, I would need proper encouragement, so if anyone, anyone at all, is interested in the girls, let me know. :)

And how do you let me know? You REVIEW, of course! :D


	19. Chapter 19

19. Nonsensical

Boomer mouthed soundlessly as Bubbles peeked at him from around Brick's head. She grinned. Brick himself _was_ pretty engaging, but she knew better than to get completely distracted when messing with Boomer's head.

She detached her mouth from Brick's with a satisfying _pop_. He wiped a smear of her lip gloss from his lip and studied her pensively.

"Not bad," he mused. Bubbles glanced at Boomer again. His face was completely red, his fists clenching and unclenching. Bubbles looped her arm in Brick's.

"Feel like hitting the town tonight, Red?" she asked, already half-leading him out to his car. Brick shrugged and nodded, following her. When she passed Boomer she blew him a little kiss, grinned, and glued herself to Brick's side.

She could see Boomer following them in his navy car as she turned around. Brick had the top down and the radio blaring, and Bubbles put her hands up in the air, screaming a laugh that felt _so good_ to let out. Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up, still laughing.

"You're gonna need to try harder than that, baby," she said as Boomer tried begging her to quit. "Come on, Boom, you always did like playing tag. Well, you're it."

She closed her phone and tossed it in the back, sliding almost into Brick's lap.

Boomer caught up at about the third bar they went to. Brick was being the mostly responsible one, but Bubbles was already pretty buzzed. When Boomer got there she was on stage, singing karaoke at the top of her lungs. Another few seconds she jumped off the stage and started crowd surfing. Boomer waited until she'd been set on her feet before grabbing her arm.

"Whoops," she giggled, "looks like you caught me."

"Would you just come home, please?" Boomer asked, strained. "I'm willing to forget this ever happened if you'd just—"

"Tag," she whispered, shifting like she was going in for a kiss, pausing before connecting with his lips, "you're it again." She shoved him away, grabbed Brick's arm, and ran outside. Brick flashed his brother a grin as they left. Boomer grabbed a passing shot of tequila and threw it down his throat before following.

"You know," Brick said as they sprinted down the sidewalk, "he's going to be pretty mad at us tomorrow."

"That's his problem," Bubbles laughed, pulling him into a club. "Right now, I couldn't care less."

Boomer lost them around the fifth nightclub on account of Bubbles and Brick completely changing their wardrobes and ducking in with a crowd on their way down Main Street. He kicked a wall and didn't care about the large crater he left.

"Hey," he asked a passing partygoer, "have you seen a crazy blond with blue eyes dragging a redhead in a red baseball cap around anywhere?"

"Yeah, man," his informant nodded. "She just ran off to that rave downtown."

"Figures," Boomer muttered. "Thanks." He took off, bowling the guy over and getting ready to crash through the roof, if he needed to.

"Neon looks good on you," Bubbles yelled as she and Brick danced through splotches of bright yellow, orange, green, and pink paint. Brick smeared a handful of orange down the side of her face and grinned. She didn't get much of a chance to say anything else, being overcome with the urge to shove her tongue down his throat again.

True to form Brick was pulled forcefully from her and punched square in the mouth. Bubbles adopted an innocent expression as Boomer wheeled on her. Brick grumbled from his perch on the floor.

"What?" she asked as Boomer glowered. Brick got to his feet, but Bubbles caught his fist before it could connect with Boomer's nose.

"It's been fun, Red," she said sweetly, "but I think you're ready to go home now."

Brick spat, shrugged, and walked out. Boomer kept his stingy expression as Bubbles wrapped her arms around his neck and dabbed a spot of green paint on his nose.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, biting her lip and looking up at him playfully. He sighed and tugged his hands around her waist.

"Extremely," he said, unable to keep a smile from his face as she kissed him. "No, really, I'm livid."

"Dance with me?" she asked. Boomer chuckled, picked up a discarded can of pink paint, and tipped it over her head. She shrieked, wiping paint from her eyes and spluttering.

"You've got to catch me first, sweetheart," he teased, ducking into the crowd and letting her run after him, laughing, all the way to the apartment.

* * *

A/N: Golly, but this is rough. This is what happens when I have PPG on the brain and Avril Lavigne's new song stuck in my head: Bubbles high on life and wanting to punish Boomer. Shadow, this is also partly for you, gal. :D Is Brick being OOC? Probably. Is Bubbles? Maybe. Is Boomer? No, I don't think so. ;) It's abrupt and it's messy, and the only thing the title has to do with it is both Boomer's train of thought this wild night and my train of thought writing this. Yeesh.

Reviews let me know how I'm doing, dawgz.


	20. Chapter 20

20. Fortitude

Buttercup was just…tired.

She was tired of dragging herself out of bed every day, tired of making passable grades in school, tired of taking out the same stupid criminals who couldn't take a hint. She just wanted it all to go away. She was used to feeling this way. It had persisted ever since the only bit of fun she got in this town disappeared off the face of the friggin' planet. Where did he get the gumption to just up and leave her like that? Did she _say_ she was done grinding his face into the gravel yet?

She laid on her back in the grass, staring up at the night sky and trying to make sense of it all. Wouldn't it be easy just to…let go? To just let it all go down the drain, watching it swirl around like his stupid cowlick until it left like he did? Man, she hated that cowlick. And the face directly beneath it, and the body located underneath that. Anything that was applicable to the word "Butch".

What was the point without him around to bug the mess out of her every other day? What good did it do to sink her fist into a mugger's gut if he couldn't really fight back? Fine. Screw him. She didn't care. Not really.

She could feel her face hardening under the cool night air. She knew what that meant, just like she now knew what it meant when he frowned and when his punches seemed to hurt more than usual. Her eyes stung. Reminded her of the time when he rubbed a handful of soap in her face in middle school.

_Cut it out_, she thought. _Doesn't do you any good. Hold 'em in._

The stars twinkled like glittering eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut. A drop or two of moisture might have escaped.

_Hold 'em in. They'll pass._

She breathed in deeply, smelling the grass. She was going to get stains on her jeans from crash-landing here. She remembered the big streak of green she left down the back of his shirt when she tackled him right into this same park. He gave her the shirt later to mop up her bloody nose.

_They'll pass, they'll pass, they'll pass. Hold 'em in._

An ice cream truck drove by, jingling cheerfully. Buttercup wanted to melt it down to the axels with her laser eyes. They got ice cream once, after they were too tired to keep beating the snot and blood and teeth out of each other.

A singular drop of wetness slid away from her eye. It was followed by another. And another.

_Screw you, Butch_, she thought as she stifled the sound of more tears joining their comrades. _You weren't supposed to leave._

* * *

A/N: I LIIIIIIIIVE! Briefly! I kinda like this one, matter of fact. :D

REVIEW. NOW.


	21. Chapter 21

21. Promises

It's funny, but we always figured Butch and Buttercup would be the ones who wound up beating each other to death.

It's an automatic thing; my arm just keeps swinging back and forth, my fist pounding against that hatefully pretty face of hers. The ground around us is soaked. Red always was our color.

She just keeps staring at me. Those eyes just don't close, don't blink, don't do anything but stare. I know she's watching me, begging me to stop, to explain, but we're beyond that point. Words mean nothing now. She doesn't even fight back, just keeps letting me mince her perfect complexion with my knuckles.

Automatic. I stop punching and pick her up by the hair, throwing her against the far end of the street. She makes a crater where she lands, but doesn't even try to pick herself up. That just makes me madder.

_Fight back_, I want to scream, _fight back!_ She just keeps looking at me, tears welling in those rosy eyes. I popped a blood vessel in one of them. Her cheeks are swollen, her nose smashed, her lip busted open. And still she doesn't retaliate.

I float up to her and study her studying me. She cracks a small smile.

_Is it over?_ She seems to ask. _Are you finished?_

I stomp on her hand with my good leg and feel the bones crack. She doesn't even flinch.

_Are you finished?_

I kick her arm. It splinters.

_Are you finished?_

I grab her around the throat and slam her against the building behind her. She doesn't have the decency to choke when I tighten the fist, just makes a serene sort of wheezing and keeps smiling at me.

_Are you finished?_

I scream and throw her down on the pavement. She lays like a broken doll in the crater, still smiling, still alive somehow, still just talking with her eyes.

_It's okay,_ her smile says now, _I forgive you. _She's crying again, smiling and crying and staring up at me.

I blink. Then I blast her with my eyebeams. To my surprise, she still has enough juice in her to fire her own, her red battling against my pink. I guess that's how it's always sort of been.

Her blast wins out (or maybe I just give up) and I get thrown back by the impact. I can't summon the strength to move. My injuries are throbbing. The broken leg from when she shattered my knee with her fist, the broken ribs from her kicks, the burns from her hand blasts, the bald spot where she ripped some of my hair out and took some scalp with it. Something slithers up against me and a swathe of dusty orange hair tickles my nose.

"I thought we promised we wouldn't do that anymore," she says in a small voice.

I put my arm around her and sigh.

"I guess we lied."

* * *

A/N: What is with me and the angst these days? IDK. Got a sudden idea. Wrote it. Whatevs. :D

Review and tell me to stop the madness! ;)


	22. Chapter 22

22. Weather

If Butch was pressed to say what his favorite season was, he'd say summer. No school, lots of heat, plenty of opportunities to take his shirt off…yeah, summer, definitely.

If Buttercup was coerced into answering the same question, she'd say fall. Football season, of course, and the brisk air meant she had to cover up and not have idiots drooling over her bathing suit.

When asked about his favorite weather pattern specifically, Butch would pause for a second and then say rain. It dulled the sounds of happy-go-lucky Townsville. Plus, it was like a free Wet T-Shirt Contest when girls had to run through the downpour.

When Buttercup felt like answering, she'd say sunny. Better visibility, better flight conditions, better outdoor activities.

When asked about least favorite weather, both would look at each other and say simultaneously snow. Because it's cold and wet and the ice makes you slip, Butch would grunt. Because someone thought it would be funny to peg her in the head with a snowball during lunch every day at school, Buttercup would scowl. They'd look at each other again. Butch would crack a smile. Buttercup would laugh a little.

How else, Butch says, was I supposed to get your attention?

Snow isn't so bad, Buttercup would then reason. There's hot chocolate, and gift-getting, and turkey.

There's also getting cozy by a fire and sharing coats in a blizzard, Butch would add. Then they'll study each other for a minute.

When asked again about their favorite season Butch says winter and Buttercup says ditto.

* * *

A/N: Hey, guys. Due to severe weather and the lack of power, I had a lot of time to write. And also being severe weather, in an effort to keep my spirits up, expect the next three or four updates (which will be rapid-fire updates) to be FLUFFEH. SO MUCH FLUFF ON ITS WAY, GAIS.

Have I totally mangled Butch and Buttercup's characters with this one? Probably. BUT I LAV IT ANYWAY.

Reviews, please. Because my area was hit with tornadoes and it'll make me feel better.


	23. Chapter 23

23. Cat

Bubbles wasn't expecting to find Boomer when she walked into the animal shelter. She almost ran back out, but held her ground, flouncing in and trying her best to ignore him. He was unwinding his scarf from around his neck, seemingly just as intent on ignoring her while she stripped off her mittens. Winter wear removed, Bubbles signed into the volunteer log and went to the store room, bringing out the cat food to start feeding time. The cats mewed and cried, begging for attention as Bubbles went from cage to cage. Silently Boomer did the same for the dogs, yipping and bouncing excitedly.

When all the animals were fed and their waste receptacles cleaned, Bubbles settled into a corner to stroke her favorite cat in the shelter, a tiny kitten she christened Angelo for the white stripe around the crown of his head. Unexpectedly Boomer slid into the chair next to her, scratching behind Angelo's ears.

"I didn't know you volunteered here," Bubbles said carefully, shifting Angelo ever so slightly away. Boomer merely nodded, leaning in to rub under the kitten's chin.

"Since I was a kid," he replied. "I've been calling this one Halo."

"Really? I call him Angelo," Bubbles smiled a little. "He's the sweetest one in the whole shelter."

They didn't speak, letting Angelo purr through the silence. When his amber eyes started drifting closed Boomer got up, opened another cage, and pulled out an old yellow tabby. He sat back down, giving the cat a good scratching.

"This one's Miff," Boomer said. "I brought her in myself. Only likes me. But I guess you knew that."

"I just know she spits at me whenever I try to take her out," Bubbles looked at the cantankerous old feline incredulously. With everyone else Miff would fight tooth and nail, resisting everything from cage cleaning to a bath. In Boomer's hands she turned into a tame, even lovable animal, pushing against his hands when he slacked off his stroking and purring loudly. "That's amazing."

"She just likes a familiar face, is all," Boomer scrubbed his fingers into Miff's scruff, grinning at the cat's half-asleep, contented expression. "I pulled her out of traffic when I was little, after Brick and Butch tied her up in a sack and dropped her on the interstate. She was soaking wet and covered in fleas, and she clawed me every time I touched her, but eventually, she got used to me. I couldn't keep her at home. I brought her here and threatened the staff not to sell her. Turns out I didn't have to worry; she hissed and fought so much that no one but me would touch her. She likes it that way."

"That's what I like about animals," Bubbles confided, turning her attention back to a sleeping Angelo. "They have pure spirits."

"They don't make judgments," Boomer said quietly, and for the first time his dark blue eyes found her light ones. She flushed despite herself. "Miff doesn't care that my brothers almost killed her. She just likes that I saved her and fed her." He turned back to the cat. "People aren't like that."

Bubbles opened her mouth, closed it, and looked down. In her lap Angelo stirred, blinking up at her sleepily.

"No," she agreed softly. "I guess they aren't."

When the cats were put away and the shelter was closed, Bubbles turned to Boomer, struck by a thought.

"Would you walk me home?" she asked. "I want to hear more about Miff."

Boomer blinked, taken aback, but nodded. Bubbles slipped her hand in his and he let her, walking side-by-side down the sidewalk into the darkening twilight.

* * *

A/N: Hey, guys. :D Just some Blues animal fluff for you. I have nothing much to say about this, other than I really like how Boomer came out in this one.

Review, please!


	24. Chapter 24

24. No Time

"Boys!" Mojo yelled at the top of his voice. "I demand that you desist the activity you are now engaging in, for it is not what I had planned on doing this afternoon! You will obey me, for I am Mojo Jojo, your father and creator, and I order you to cease this frivolity and join me in the activity I had planned, which is not this!"

To his disappointment his words had no effect; the seven-year-old boys kept right on ignoring him. Butch smashed his foot into a cardboard box, beating his chest and roaring like a monster.

"Aw, come on, Brick, why do I have to play the Powerpuff Girls?" Boomer whined, struggling with the dress Brick managed to wrestle him into. "I _always_ play the Powerpuff Girls!"

"It's 'cuz you're a sissy. Now get in there! The monster is destroying Townsville!" Brick ordered. In answer Butch roared again, crushing another cardboard box with his fist. Boomer sighed, floating haphazardly towards Butch.

"I am the Powerpuff Girls," he sighed, "and I'm here to save the day."

Butch roared, his fist lashing out to catch Boomer in the cheek. He scowled, rubbing the sore spot.

"Ow! Not so hard!"

"Boys!" Mojo yelled. "I command you—"

"Butch, you've got to let the Powerpuff Girls defeat you!" Brick cried over the top of him. "You know how the story goes!"

"But I don't wanna be defeated again!" Butch argued. "We _always_ do the same story! Why can't the monster win for once?"

Beneath him Boomer whimpered and wriggled.

"Because," Brick sighed, rubbing his forehead, "the Rowdyruff Boys can't swoop in and defeat the Girls if the monster already has."

"But you always play the Rowdyruff Boys," Butch complained. "Why don't we get a turn, huh?"

"Boys, if you do not stop this foolish game, we shall be late!" Mojo shouted, slightly more panicked upon checking his watch. "As your father and creator, I insist you listen to me! The creative powers instilled in me upon your creation has imbued me with the powers of parenthood, and as my subordinate children you will listen! You will follow, obey, and otherwise carry out my every whim and command!"

"I don't wanna be the Powerpuff Girls!" Boomer wailed as Butch and Brick argued storylines. "Make Butch be the Girls!"

"I wanna be the Rowdyruff Boys!" Butch yelled. "I'm handsomer and stronger and intelligenter!"

"It's more intelligent, dum-bee!" Brick argued. "And I'm the Rowdyruff Boys because I'm the leader and I said so!"

"I wanna be leader!" Butch started stomping up and down. "I wanna be leader! I want, I want, I _want!_"

"I don't wanna be the Girls!" Boomer bawled over Butch's tantrum, scrambling out of the dress.

"I'm the leader!" Brick screamed. "I say what goes!"

"Boys!" Mojo cried, but too late; the clock on the wall struck six and a red cloud swirled into being behind him. Gulping, Mojo turned around to see a flame-wreathed Him materialize from the portal.

"What," Him said in harsh tones, "is taking so long?"

Mojo didn't get a chance to explain; Him looked over the simian's overlarge brain and saw the cardboard boxes strewn around the living room, Boomer in his underwear, Brick red in the face with shouting, Butch jumping up and down and still pitching a fit. A smile grew over Him's face (an evil smile, but a smile, nonetheless).

"Aren't they precious?" he simpered. Mojo glanced at him, obviously fearing for his sanity.

"Precious? There is nothing precious or otherwise cute about these three heathens," Mojo grumbled. "They are annoying, irritating, too loud, and boisterous."

"Oh, let them be," Him said fondly, stretching out in one of Mojo's kitchen chairs. "They're only young once, right? There will be plenty of time to do evil things when they're done fighting."

Mojo grumbled at Him's stilettos digging holes into his kitchen table and supposed that, yes, yes they were.

* * *

A/N: I HAVE NO EXCUSE. Other than that Him is difficult to write for. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO NAIL HIS SPEECH PATTERN. IT'S NOT DISTINCT LIKE MOJO WHICH IS WHY IT'S HARDER I THINK. BUT ANYWAY. Just some younger!RRB humor fluff that came out of my system.

Review and party on, dudes.


	25. Chapter 25

25. Trouble Lurking

Blossom felt his presence before she saw his face, grinning sardonically up at her from the crowd of reporters.

She ignored him as long as humanly possible until his steady hand was too much to bear; she looked him in the eyes, at long last, and gave a tiny sigh.

"Yes, you, sir, with the red tie?"

"Brick Jojo, Miss Utonium, from the Townsville Journal." His words had an ironic ring, as did his expression. "You say that Townsville's streets are safer than they were a year ago. My sources tell me that a new crime ring has emerged and has sworn to—and I quote—'bring down the Utonium girls and have them groveling on their knees'." His smile was entirely too knowing for her liking. "Your reply?"

"If you're referring to the Easy Street bootlegging chain, then yes, I'm familiar," Blossom nodded. "You can tell your 'sources' that they can breathe hot air all they want, because I and my sisters are more than prepared to deal with any threat against the citizens of Townsville's peace and safety."

"How do you plan on beating this new gang?" Brick continued.

"By any means necessary," Blossom replied, a hard edge to her voice that didn't escape the press members' notice. "No further questions. Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen."

Blossom escaped back into the Townsville Police Station's doors, ducking through the halls to her office, where she could sit back and relax with a hot cup of coffee. Before she was even properly settled in her chair the door glided open and closed, and the aroma of fresh coffee wafted across her nose as the lock clicked.

"A cup of Joe for Townsville's greatest hero," Brick's voice cut across her musings as he set a mug in front of her. "That was a pretty speech."

"Pretty maybe, but heaven knows how long it'll hold them," Blossom murmured, sipping the piping hot liquid. "Was the question really necessary?"

"I have to show my superiors I'm doing my job," Brick replied, pulling the drapes in front of the windows closed.

"What superiors?" Blossom mumbled into the coffee. "It's _your_ newspaper."

"Then my inferiors," Brick shrugged. Blossom felt a feather-light touch of lips on her cheek and turned to receive the full impact on her own mouth.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, frowning as he loosened his tie. "It's too soon after the press conference. Someone will be at my door any minute."

"Doubtful," Brick replied. "They'll be a little occupied with the sudden fire in the building next door."

"Please tell me you didn't," Blossom groaned, only resisting a little when Brick maneuvered her out of her own chair and settled in it himself, setting her in his lap.

"It's small. It'll be fully contained in less than an hour," Brick murmured into her hair. "Plenty of time, don't you agree, doll?"

"I told you," she growled as his nimble fingers slid effortlessly towards the top of her stockings, "not to call me that."

"And miss the reaction?" he laughed in a low voice. "Not a chance."

"You said you had sources," Blossom said suddenly. Brick sighed.

"Must we talk about that now?" he asked, hitching her leg more securely around his waist. She pushed back from him, standing up and straightening her clothes.

"Yes," she said simply. "I want to know who they are."

"Does it matter?" he frowned. "Sources are sources. You know I can't rat them out."

She merely stared at him and he stared back. He _tsked_.

"Always the same with you," he grumbled. "I can't enjoy being with you for one second without you wanting to talk business, can I?"

"You want me, you answer the business. Now spill," she crossed her arms. "I need names."

"We're running out of time, doll," Brick growled. "They'll have the fire out in no time and then we'll get caught. Is that what you want?"

"Names," she insisted. Brick swore, standing up and pacing the room.

"Who do you think?" he snapped. "Who is it always?"

She picked up the coffee and sipped it. She then dumped it, mug and all, in her trash can and walked towards the door. Before she could reach for the lock Brick grabbed her arm, spinning her around and dipping her low so all attempts to escape would end up with her falling. She scowled.

"I'm not in the mood for this right now," she hissed. He kissed her, hard and long. She thought about budging but didn't. "Names."

"Mojo and Butch, who else?" he finally spat. Once the words were out of his mouth it attached itself firmly to her neck, but she pushed him back again, forcing him to stand her upright.

"Are you part of it?" she asked. He didn't answer, but his hand moved for his hat. "Stop avoiding me. Are you part of it?"

"Here and there," Brick said after a moment. "Enough to stay on the inside and get you your precious information."

"It's for the good of Townsville!" Blossom cried, feeling somewhat scandalized. Brick laughed humorlessly.

"What this is, doll, is you using any means necessary. Be honest. You weren't thinking of the good of Townsville when you ripped the shirt off my back the first time, were you?"

Blossom didn't reply, but she turned scarlet.

"Stupid me," Brick finally said. "I guess I thought that maybe, after all this time, you'd learn to stop using me as a mole. I got news for you, doll, this thing of ours was going long before you realized I had connections in dark places. I don't know where you get the chutzpah to try and pump me for information now after I went through all that trouble to get you alone, but wherever it came from, it needs to go back." He unlocked the door with more force than necessary. "Good afternoon, _Miss Utonium_." He slammed the door on his way out and Blossom sank back into her chair, wobbly-kneed.

About five minutes later he stormed back in, grabbed his hat, jammed it on his head, stared at her for a moment, took it back off, and locked the door again.

"That fire seems to be getting out of control," Brick whispered in her ear.

"Let it," Blossom murmured back.

* * *

A/N: 1920s returns, this time with the Reds and their messed-up relationship. It's hard to tell it's 1920s with them; neither of them use much slang. But this is how it is; Blossom is the chief-of-police having a steamy affair with sorta-ex-criminal editor-in-chief of a hard-hitting newspaper Brick. There were a lot of hyphons in that sentence. Originally I hated this piece; it was basically Brick whining about how "she didn't care about him" and stuff, and it is still mainly that, but...I dunno, I like this piece better than the one that came before.

Have any of you seen The Adjustment Bureau? Pretty good. In parts reminded me of these two, for some reason.

Review plz. :3


	26. Chapter 26

26. Tears

Brick understood many things. He understood several efficient ways to kill people. He understood every subject school could cram down his throat. He understood how to manipulate people into doing his will, and how to seem genuine while doing it.

Not on that list was the effusion of moisture pooling beneath Blossom's eyes, sliding down her cheeks. He didn't understand that. He didn't like it, how it made him feel somehow more like a monster when it happened. How could he fight that? It wasn't fair.

Even worse, she was angry, trying to hide all that wetness from him while thinking up a good comeback to his latest insult. It had just flown out of his mouth. Like his courage the longer she stood there, crying.

The longer he stared, the more uncomfortable he felt. He hadn't actually _meant _to make her cry this time. He just wanted her angry. He was _bored_, for cripe's sake. It wasn't like he really meant what he said, anyway. Not when her pink eyes shimmered and her face grew wetter.

"S-stop it," Brick mumbled, looking down at his feet.

She could hardly answer around her sobs. "What?"

"Cut it out!" he cried. "Stop!"

"Cut _what_ out?" she shrieked at him, and for some reason the tears grew thicker. "Stop _what?_"

She was crying harder and Brick felt the heat climbing up his neck and he didn't know what to do, he didn't know what to do, so he just did what he thought would make her stop. He pulled her, roughly, abruptly, against his chest and held her.

Well, the crying didn't stop immediately, because he could feel the wetness soaking into his shirt, but she stopped crying so loudly, thank heaven. While he was at it, he thanked heaven that he was finally taller than her. This would have been much more awkward if it was _his_ face pressed into _her_ chest (though some tiny, tiny part of him thought it might not be that bad an idea…). He didn't know how long they stood there, her face smooshed into his shirt and probably getting her tears and snot all in it, him unwilling to let go despite that until he was sure she'd stopped crying, but when he did, she slapped him.

Hard. Across the face. He touched the red welt growing there, wincing.

"Thanks," she muttered, then turned around and walked off. Brick looked down at his shirt, confirmed the large wet spot there, and threw his hands in the air, irritated.

That list of things he understood also didn't include girls.

* * *

A/N: And now we move from steamy sexual tension Reds to awkward middle school Reds (I'd put them at about thirteen here). They are adorbs. :D

A warning: the next three updates will be Blues. Two will not be sweet. Gotta get my angst quota in. :D

REEEEEEEEEVIIIIIEEEWWWWWWUH.


	27. Chapter 27

Foreign

"Whatcha thinkin' about?" Bubbles asked. Boomer glanced at her, his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Something gorgeous," he replied.

"Something I would know?" she grinned. He nodded, a tell-tale smile growing on his face.

"Yeah, I'd say so," he winked. A smattering of pink stole across both their cheeks and they looked away, Bubbles biting her lip to keep from smiling too widely and Boomer looking up at the sky again.

"We've been walking around this park for almost an hour," Boomer said finally. "Did you have something you wanted to talk about or something?"

Bubbles shrugged. "Just felt like having some company."

"You got it, babe," he put his arm around her, grinning as she giggled. After a few minutes she ducked from under his arm and he returned it to his pocket, stifling a frown.

"Let's go flying," Boomer looked over at Bubbles. "Get away from nosy people for a little while, if you know what I mean."

Bubbles glanced at the curious looks they were still drawing and nodded, floating into the air. Boomer zoomed after and above her, sticking his tongue out. Bubbles laughed, kicking up her own speed to catch up. They spiraled around each other through the clear sky, leaving a large blue twist of light to fade into nothing. They finally skidded to a stop on top of Townsville's tallest skyscraper, trying to catch their breath for giggling.

"I think I won," Bubbles teased.

"Whatever!" Boomer cried. "I touched down first!"

"Whatever makes you feel better, sweetheart," Bubbles patted his arm in a motherly sort of way. Boomer swatted her hand away, which made her poke his arm repeatedly, which in turn caused Boomer to grab her wrists. She fought him for a minute, but he pinned her hands to the concrete behind her, leaning almost flush against her in an effort to keep her poking fingers to herself. Of course, Boomer failed to realize that this action brought them nose-to-nose until he found himself staring right into Bubbles' baby-blues.

The words he wanted to say and were too scared to bubbled up to the surface, as they always did, and he fought them, as usual. The startled expression in her eyes was enough to try and beat them down.

He paused for a moment as a breeze riffled through her hair, bearing her warm scent his way. She smelled like…like vanilla, and brown sugar, and a hug on a rainy day, and a pure kiss just an inch away. His mind blanked, forgetting everything he'd been practicing on telling her for a year now. He was aware of her heart beating a mile a minute through the veins in her wrist, her sweet breath hitting his face, her wide eyes drawing him in closer.

She was saying something. He couldn't hear over the chimes of her voice. He just leaned forward, closed his eyes, and went for it.

At the first tentative contact the overwhelming feeling Boomer was aware of was fear. What was he doing? He was an idiot! Stop now, before she figures out something is wrong, he screamed at himself. _Stop, stop, stop!_

The second feeling as she responded was pleasure. He liked this. It was nice, just to let their lips do the talking for once. No thoughts needed, really, just instinct.

The third as she pressed closer against him and he released her wrists to put his hands on her waist was a blazing…something. Her fingers wound in his hair. He wrapped his arms around her entirely. He felt like she was on fire, shining brighter than anything he'd ever seen, and some of that was rubbing off on him. She pulled back gradually, leaning against his forehead and looking in his eyes again, and for a moment Boomer saw the future very clearly.

He saw her hand in his, skipping through school and smiling brightly together. He saw himself blowing her a kiss at graduation, visiting her at college, bringing her flowers and stealing her away when she cried. He saw a chapel, a radiant Bubbles in white, a jealous mob of boys as he removed her garter with his teeth and flung it in their faces. He saw a honeymoon in Venice, a baby, two, three, four, however many she wanted. He saw a rocking chair on a front porch and a swing with his gnarled hand covering hers.

The fear returned, but a fierce, flying-straight-towards-the-unknown kind of fear. The good kind that pulsed with adrenaline, filling him up till he found himself floating upwards with her in tow. He'd never had that happen before when he kissed a girl. Bubbles was saying something again, pulling back and away, but Boomer reached out, put his hands on either side of her face, drew her back in.

"Boomer, what are you doing?" she asked when he found his ears would work right again.

"I have no idea," he murmured, bringing her back in to kiss her.

Boomer always thought he'd have to tell her what he was feeling, in every minute detail. He thought he'd have to say how terrified he was of both losing her and having her, of how she made him feel like _someone_, of how he'd never wanted anything so badly as he wanted her.

As it turned out, she already knew.

* * *

A/N: This didn't really come out how I wanted it to, but it was spawned by my Blues Musical and Character Manifesto on my LJ (go to my profile for the link to my LJ. Title of the post is "GIVE...ME...YOUR...SHOELACES!"). Felt like some Fluffy Blues (as if there was any other kind...I mean, really. XD)

Parts two and three of the three-part Blues installment is coming. This one has nothing to do with the other two, but hear me: THE ANGST IS COMING. AND IT WANTS CHEEZBURGER. NOT REALLY.

...review? Plz?


	28. Chapter 28

28. Sorrow

The only thing Boomer could think as her fist connected with his face was that he was sorry.

He was sorry he'd never get to take her on a date, or see her smile at him again. He was sorry about having to miss opportunities to make her laugh, to twirl her around the dance floor.

It was only to be expected. She'd already broken one of his legs. It dangled uselessly under him like a loose thread. She punched him again and he didn't try to stop her, slamming into the asphalt and creating a furrow down Townsville Main about a quarter of a mile long. He just lay there, waiting for her to come back, waiting for her to finish the job.

He didn't care. Not really. It wasn't like she would've given him the opportunity to do any of those things. He stared up at her blue eyes, filled with icy calm, and quirked a grin.

"Never pegged you for the type, honey," he gurgled around a punctured lung. "At least buy me dinner before throwing me down." He was already healing, of course, but the blood was still bubbling up and pooling in his mouth. He spat the mouthful out with surprising accuracy, right on her pristine white skirt. _There. Take that._

She glared down at the red stain creeping across the fabric, momentarily replacing the ice with fire. _That's it. Be angry. Show me the heat._

The resounding slap echoed across a now-silent Townsville, and Boomer crunched headlong into a building. Probably a bank or something, he didn't know. Lots of stairs. She walked towards him, the fire cooling down, the ice returning. Boomer frowned.

She got close enough for Boomer, if he craned a little, to look up her skirt. He whistled accordingly. He was grabbing for straws, he knew it, but this…this cool and collected Bubbles wasn't someone he liked. If he was going to get the tar beat out of him, she might as well do him the courtesy of being herself.

"I see London, I see France…" he chuckled. He knew it was childish, but who cares? If he was going to die, might as well have fun with it.

She shrieked this time, kicking him in the head. This one didn't have as much power behind it; he only made it to the building across the street before rolling to a stop. The fire was back now, pulsing in her eyes and all around her with blue intensity, bubblegum pink painting its way deliciously across her cheeks. She was on him in an instant, straddling his waist and cutting loose on his face. He didn't stop her. He peeked at her in between punches and saw the calm returning, her hits becoming more accurate and methodical. He scowled. Then he caught her wrist in his fist. She struck out with the other and he grabbed that one, too.

He squeezed. Her bones cracked, groaned, under the pressure, and she screamed and twisted and fought. He kept pressing. He kept pressing and squeezing until something snapped, and a blue bolt of energy caught him right in the eye.

He didn't have to hear the sizzling and feel the pain to know he was blind in that eye; for how long he didn't know, he'd never tried it before. But he yelled, threw her to the side, and rolled, his hands coming up instinctively to cover his face. She was nursing her wrists, her harsh breathing mingling with his.

"It didn't have to be this way," Boomer said in between gasps. "It doesn't."

"Yes," she panted, "it does."

And suddenly she moved in a blur and he found himself staring up at a jagged pipe sticking out of his middle.

He screamed, writhed, put his hands around the pipe to bring it out, but he just didn't have the strength—he had too many other injuries, too many other things pulling at his energy, and this pipe was going to _kill him_ if he didn't move it soon. She stood over him, a flicker of triumph flashing before the Ice Princess came back. He raised a trembling hand to his mouth, then blew her a kiss.

"Forever and always, babe. I meant it."

Her face contorted, the sweet features twisting, and her foot came down hard on his face. He felt his nose crunch and shatter under the impact, but he just laughed.

He was sorry he'd never get to kiss her. He was sorry he'd never get to ask her to Prom. He was sorry for a lot of things as he grabbed her foot, twisted her around, and slammed her down over the top of him. She struggled, she screamed, the building next to them was blown away, but he held her tight and didn't let go until she stopped moving and he faded from consciousness.

_Forever and always. It didn't have to be this way._

* * *

A/N: Part one of two. Not as violent as I imagined it would be, but I found myself going for more the emotional warfare they would be wreaking on each other.

Next comes Bubbles. It's calmer than this one.

Review plz.


	29. Chapter 29

29. Happiness

Bubbles could've sung.

Being calm and cool was never how she chose to fight. She didn't feel like herself when she did. Every time he insulted her or made a crude remark she felt a surge of fury, of wild joy. Her hits weren't as accurate, her strength not quite at full peak. This…this was her. Blossom lost it and her fighting fell apart. Buttercup lost it and she got better. Bubbles lost it, and she felt like smiling.

She wanted to thank him for every time he looked up her skirt or thrust his hand down her shirt during this fight, because it made her feel better. She tried to stay calm, to be like Blossom and just get the job done, but every time she tried she just couldn't. He wouldn't let her. He wouldn't let her be anything other than herself.

Now they were stuck there, jammed together by the pipe she'd driven into his belly herself, their blood mingling and staccato breaths clashing. His remaining good eye was trained on her as she tried to break away, but her strength leached away and she felt limp in his crushing grip.

His eye closed and his head fell back, but his arms didn't slacken. She wasn't sure if it was rigor mortis or sheer exhaustion, but whatever it was, he wasn't letting her go.

She could kill him right now, if he wasn't already dead. Her face pressed against his neck was a prime opportunity. She let her cheek rest there for a moment, simply because it distracted from the agonizing pain of having something sharp and metal carving out a circle of her midsection. His jugular pulsed faintly. He was still with her. For now.

She tried to fire up her lasers. She tried to sink her teeth into his flesh and tear away. She tried summoning a sonic scream to blast his head into nothing.

She just couldn't do it. Her Chemical X was already working hard on trying to heal her broken wrist, her dislocated shoulder, her twisted ankle, and various internal bleeding sites before the pipe. She was exhausted. She tasted blood in her mouth. She knew it was only a miracle or coincidence that both she and Boomer had missed impaling each other's spines.

His arms crushed her, making it difficult for her to breathe. Only her ear pressed to his throat let her know he was still alive for now. She felt her eyes drifting closed as the pain in her stomach lulled.

The others would find them. Perhaps they would both already be dead. The thought made her strangely content.

She hummed under her breath, smiling, and waited for the darkness to steal over her vision.

* * *

A/N: And here's part two.

I don't know, guys. I try to write violent Blues and their incorrigible optimism stabs me in the face. XD

Review. And stuff.


	30. Chapter 30

30. Under the Rain

It rained the day Buttercup left.

Ace stood out in it and let it wash over him, the fresh bruises from her goodbye standing out angrily against his skin. Water coursed over his skin, across the channels his ribs made, between his toes, through his hair. He would probably be the cleanest he had been in ten years after this.

He should have expected it. It was only a matter of time before she got bored of him. Just like when she was a kid, the second he did something out of line she'd beat the crap out of him and leave. There were only so many chances a man got, even with someone who didn't really care like her. Even if it was only Buttercup, there was still pressure involved when you dated a Powerpuff Girl. He guessed she just couldn't take it.

He wiped his nose on his hand and rubbed it off on his jeans. He could get real sick if he didn't get inside soon. Whatever. It wasn't like she'd care if he died anyway.

Heavy footsteps rumbled behind him.

"Billy miss Buttercup," the largest member of his gang sniffed.

"I don't," Ace said boldly, much more than he felt. "An' you shouldn't, neither. She doesn't miss us."

Big Billy rubbed at his eyes with one of his hammy hands.

"Buttercup promise Billy she help him beat Arturo at checkers tonight."

"Issssss she not coming back, Bossss?" Snake asked, sliding to the doorway with Billy. "For realssss?"

Ace chose not to answer, lifting his face towards the pounding rain instead, his back to his gang as they crowded the doorway, demanding answers. The noise built until Ace whirled around.

"Shaddup!" he snarled. "No, she ain't coming back, and we don't want her to, okay? We're better off without her nagging and glaring us down the whole time while we try to get some honest crime in." He turned back around, stomping towards the outside edges of the dump. He turned around as an afterthought. "And don't let me catch any of you wishin' like a bunch of pansies for her to waltz back in, 'cuz she ain't!"

He threw himself down on a rotten couch behind a pile of broken microwaves, hunching over and letting the rain beat down around him. He glared at his toes as they squelched in the mud, then at the mud for dirtying up his best pair of pants. A gentle hand closed on his shoulder and a soft raspberry sputtered close to his ear.

"Go away, Grubber," he gritted his teeth. "What's done is done, alright? She's gone for good and I like it that way."

Grubber tried consoling his leader again, and Ace stood up mid-spit, whirling on him.

"Who cares what you think, huh? She was bad for our image anyway. We're the Gangreen Gang. We don't take out the trash, we live in it. We don't help old ladies cross the street, we knock her down and loot her pockets. We don't give a rat's soggy tail about what she thinks, because she ain't one of us!" Ace threw himself back on the couch. "Kindly do me a favor and piss off."

Grubber then launched into a tirade, filled with enough tongue-lashing, gesticulations, and face-pulling to make even Mojo Jojo proud. Ace stewed as his friend ranted, then turned over and put his back to him.

"I ain't gonna tell you again," he said quietly. "Go. The crap. Away."

Grubber tossed out a final, contemptuous sputter and stomped off, leaving Ace to sulk on his couch. Had he stayed, he would have seen the shudders that shook Ace's thin shoulders and the salty water that mingled with the rain on his face.

* * *

A/N: Gangreen Gang, coming at y'all. Someone please be kind and let me know if I misspelled Gangreen or got Grubber's name wrong; I sincerely hope everything is to y'all's liking. And, no, I'm not going to tell you what Grubber said. Use your imaginations.

REVIEW MAKES BIG BILLY HAPPY.


	31. Chapter 31

31. Flowers

Buttercup jumped as someone's finger jabbed into her side. She turned to scowl at the owner, expecting it to be a certain green-eyed pervert, but instead found herself glaring at a blue-eyed idiot.

"Hi," Boomer said, extending his hand. "I don't think we've met officially. I'm Boomer."

"I know who you are," Buttercup grunted, turning her attention back to the crowded gym. "You're dating my sister, remember?"

"Vividly," Boomer sighed dreamily, then leaned back against the table Buttercup was sitting on. Her dress was a little too full-skirted for sitting so high up, and the tulle underskirt was poking out. Buttercup maintained her vigil for a full two minutes before curiosity got the better of her.

"What do you want?"

"Just thought I'd hang out with someone different," Boomer shrugged. "Butch can't shut up about you at home, so I figured I'd come see if any of the stories were true."

"They're not," Buttercup said automatically. "Whatever he's told you, he's lying."

"So he's lying when he says you're one fun chick to be around?" Boomer smirked as Buttercup crossed her arms and looked in the opposite direction to hide her flaming red cheeks. "He's lying when he says you can hold your own in a fight? He's lying when he says he likes—"

"Shut it," Buttercup growled, hopping onto the floor and wobbling a little when her stiletto slipped. "If you're here to plead his case, you can tell him that it's his own stupid fault."

"Take it easy," Boomer held up his hands, "I'm not here to be his cheerleader."

"Then what are you here for?" Buttercup asked, exasperated. He shrugged and she scowled again. "Then clear out before I pummel you."

"Bubbles won't like it if you ruin the tux," Boomer hinted. Buttercup shrugged, cracking her knuckles. "Give the tough girl act a rest for five minutes, would you? You don't scare me."

"I should," Buttercup muttered.

"Here's a secret," Boomer replied, "I'm not scared of Butch, either. Brick, he scares me, but Butch just kinda mildly freaks me out. I know what to expect from him."

Buttercup didn't respond, and for another five minutes they watched their classmates dance around the gym.

"Buzz off, Blondie, or I swear I'll punch you in the face," Buttercup tried again, and Boomer laughed.

"Man. You really don't like people, do you?" he asked. "A little companionship, and you freak out."

"No, I don't," she shook her head. "People are stupid. Take a hike."

"Boomer!" Bubbles' voice echoed across the gym, and the blond girl floated across the floor in her blue ball gown. Boomer grinned.

"Just give me a couple more minutes, okay, babe?" he called, and Bubbles looked between Boomer and Buttercup before uncertainly nodding.

"Okay, clearly you don't respond well to small talk, so I'll make it quick," Boomer turned to Buttercup, who did her best to ignore him. "Butch is kinda upset about how things went down. I know it was his fault," he talked over Buttercup's vehement interjection, "but he's really sorry. He just won't swallow his pride and admit how miserable he is without you."

"Who says I need him, anyway?" Buttercup snorted, but the moisture content in her eyes increased. "I'm perfectly fine without him."

"Really?" Boomer raised an eyebrow. "Well, let me tell you this, then: he wrote you a poem." With a flourish Boomer produced a piece of paper. "He's no Shakespeare, but it's not too shabby."

Against her better judgment Buttercup took the folded up piece of paper and unfolded it. It was his handwriting, alright, and as her eyes skimmed the lines they got a little wetter.

_To the hottest chick I've ever met,_

_I'm sorry I let the sun set_

_On the day I broke your hart._

_It was just a brain fart._

_I wish I didn't say that stuff_

_Because I know that even if you're tuff_

_Words can hert super bad_

_And make you feel reel sad._

_Your my super mega foxy awesome hott girl_

_And I think your a real pearl._

_So can you forgive me, Buttercup?_

_I think we aught to make up_

_So I can make it up to you._

_Here's a hint: look behind you._

Buttercup, her cheeks now profusely red, twisted around and in the shadows saw Butch with a small flowering bush in his hands and a sheepish smile on his face. Buttercup bit her lip and tried to glare, but a smile creeped on her face anyway. Boomer tapped her shoulder.

"Hey," he patted her arm, "go get him. There's a beauty out on the dance floor waiting on me."

As he walked off to find Bubbles, Buttercup walked around the table and stood in front of Butch, wringing the paper in her hands.

"This," she held it up, "sucked." Butch's hopeful expression fell.

"I brought you flowers and everything," he protested, holding up the bush. A clump of dirt fell from the roots. "I tried getting a bouquet, but Boomer was pushy, so…"

"You let yourself be bossed around by Boomer?" Buttercup put her hands on her hips, and Butch tossed the bush away, stepping closer.

"He's an idiot, but sometimes he has good ideas," he shrugged, slipping his hands around her waist. "I really am sorry, Buttercup."

"Don't worry about it," Buttercup shrugged, letting her hands travel up his arms and rest around his neck. "I figure we both messed up enough to allow for a little grace period, right?"

He snorted and kissed her. "Yeah."

"So," she smiled, "flowers and poetry, huh?"

"You're right," he said thoughtfully, "my manhood is forfeit."

"Totally," she agreed, leaning in to kiss him again. He sighed as she pulled back.

"Worth it," he said in a sing-song voice. He let go of her for a minute to reach down and pluck a flower off the branch, tucking it behind her ear. "Come on. Let's go raid the snack table."

"Right behind you," she grinned, letting him take her hand and lead her there.

* * *

A/N: Hola! I was wracking my brains trying to think of something for this prompt, and then I found this. I thought I'd do my past self a favor. It's totally OOC, I think, but it's more Buttercup and Boomer interaction, and then sappy Greens with horrible Butch poetry, so I suppose it's worth a genial nod. XD

Review, por favor!


	32. Chapter 32

32. Night

The sun goes down early in this town. It goes down faster if you're on the bottom, looking up at the skyscrapers like sinners gazing up at heaven.

I sit at my office desk, my two best friends in each of my hands. In my right, my trusty revolver. Old Blue's gotten me out of more scrapes than I care to count. In my left, a cigarette, held up to my mouth. The streetlights cut in through the blinds and lay out strips of light like razor blades. If business were as good as this cigarette, I'd be rolling in the dough. In a world like this, there's not a lot of room for a hitman. All the high-ups call the Agency, all the low-downs do it themselves.

A knock at my door, and in walks trouble. Blond. Blue eyes. Body worth killing for, dressed fit for it in a slinky blue number. The only thing tighter than that dress is the line of her mouth. A smoky grey coat, loosely tied so the dress is visible, hangs off her shoulders. She's the last woman in the world I want to see, but the dame brings business, so I don't stop her.

"Mister B," she says in a voice sultry as the night she came from outside. The air conditioner broke weeks ago, and I'm sweating bullets, but nothing seems to touch her. Her hair looks great, I notice as she sits down in one of my chairs so slowly it looks like she's about to sit on a pincushion. But once she settles down, man, that dress slides so far up her legs I have a hard time focusing on anything else. Black stockings. Touch of lace at the top. Black strap where I know she keeps her gun.

"Detective," I incline my head, pulling my eyes away from that smooth white skin. Her eyes sparkle when they connect with mine. "What can I do you for?" I can't help my eyes as they flick up and down her body again. She looks good, real good.

"Let's not be crass," she replies, and I let a flicker of a smile steal across my face. "I need your help."

"If I had a dollar every time I heard that…" I take a pull on my cigarette and let the smoke out slow, just because I know it annoys her. I'm interested, but I don't want to let her know that. A job's a job, even if it's working for one of Townsville's Golden Girls.

"I have a lead, and I need backup," she keeps on going, because she knows me that well.

"Why don't you get the girls?" I ask, flicking smoldering ashes onto my ashtray. Her foot moves ever so slightly in those black stilettos. A ripple goes up her leg muscles. Despite my best efforts, my Adam's apple bobs as I swallow a couple of times.

"I can't involve them," she shakes her head. "I have evidence that Mister Him is trafficking liquor through the city and supplying the city's worst bootleggers. Gang activity is through the roof, the Gangrenes being the worst." I stand up, walking behind my chair to look out the window. It's still. Not even a cat rooting through the garbage. Everyone saw her come, and they know what she wants.

"I know it'll be difficult," she continues, using the softer voice she knows I can never resist, "I mean, he's your father—"

"Foster," I cut across her speech, glancing at her from the corner of my eye. "I don't care for the man."

"So you agree," she says, and I sigh, running my hand through my hair.

"I never said that."

"All of Townsville is in danger if you don't." Her voice starts edging towards dangerous, and I know we're about to get in another screaming match. Seems like that's what happens whenever she comes around. "I'm asking you for your help to put a dangerous criminal where he belongs."

"You should have known better before asking me," I snap, turning around. She's leaning forward, her face turned towards me in earnest, and if I shift my head I can see all the way down that pretty dress of hers. I resist the temptation and put my hands on my desk, leaning forward to keep my eyes on hers. "I'm a low-life myself. What do you need me for?"

"I can't bring the girls," she repeats, "and there's no one else I trust to have my back." She stands up. "If you're too scared to take it, I completely understand. I plan on making my move tonight as it is."

Now she's done it. She knows I try not to let her do anything dangerous or stupid by herself. This classifies as dangerous _and_ stupid. Mr. Him is the most dangerous crime lord in town. When she makes a move, she goes big. That's just how she is.

"Fine," I say through gritted teeth, "I'm in. But if we die, so help me, I'll kill you."

"That makes perfect sense," she rolls her eyes, and I bite back the retort fresh on my lips. She's no genius, either. "Do you have time for coffee?"

"Oh, no," I shake my head, "you're not trapping me with that trick again. What time and where do you need me?"

"This address," she opens her handbag and takes out a strip of paper, "seven-thirty sharp. Seven-thirty-two and I'm leaving you."

"I got it," I reply, taking the paper and putting on my hat. "Can I walk you to your car?"

"You may not," she says, standing up. The dress falls back to just above her knees, and I want to cry in relief. "Seven-thirty, Mister B. Don't forget."

"Understood, Detective Utonium," I nod, not sitting down until she's outside. Even then I watch her switching walk all the way to a parked navy Cadillac through my window, chewing the end of my cigarette to shreds until that blond head is tucked away in her car. I throw my cigarette away, reach for another one, and realize that I just smoked my last. I look at the address. It's my old penthouse, before Him kicked me out. I guess he took it up since I left. My brothers still live in theirs, but not under Him's name. I guess I'm just the unlucky one. Always have been.

Seven-thirty on the dot I'm strolling up the sidewalk, my hat tucked low and my collar pulled up to hide my face. Fancy cars roll by every once in a while, and the streets are lit with the glitter coming out of the windows of each high-rise. She's there, an elegant cigarette holder in her hand, puffing away. Her hands are shaking.

"Never took you for the smoking type," I murmur into her ear, and she starts, the long pile of ash at the end of her holder crumbling. "The way you keep ragging on me about it…."

"I quit a year ago," she frowns, taking the cigarette out of the holder and tucking the holder in her pocket. "I tried, anyway. Are you ready?"

"For what, exactly?" I ask. "You never told me the plan."

"I'm making an arrest tonight," she says, "but I can't do it on my own. I need some muscle, and things might get ugly."

I sigh. This is exactly the kind of thing I shouldn't be involved in. This is stuff for heroes, not bottom-rung assassins. But she's already charging in, her hand moving for her gun, and I have no choice but to follow.

It's a raucous party on the top floor. I can hear it all the way through the door, down the hall. The lift operator tips his cap at her, winking, and I put my hand on the small of her back, leading her like we're a couple. She lets me, flashing me a smile with those red lips of hers.

"Are we feeling a little nervous, Boomer?" She says my name for the first time since that night almost a year ago. I grin.

"Maybe," I allow. I can see the door, flanked by two goons of my foster father's, and grab her elbow to pull her to the side. "Say, Bubbles, listen. If we don't happen to make it tonight—"

"Must we worry about this now?" she asks, impatient. "We're wasting time here."

"This is important," I say, glancing at the guards. They don't move, but I can see one pair of beady eyes flick at me. "You're a gorgeous dame, Bubbles, but Him won't let that fool him. If things get too ugly, I just want the chance to say…well…" I take a deep breath, glancing at the guards again, "for what it's worth, I love you, doll."

"Why mention that now?" she hisses, but her hands are pulling at my arms something awful. "It's been a year, Boomer, why bring that up right now?"

I don't have to explain to her. She knows, even as our eyes are closing and the tip of my nose brushes hers. She's just as scared, just as worried. Once her lips are against mine her hands are against my chest, and my fingers start trailing through her hair, down her back, getting a little peek of that stocking and the lace hiding up her skirt a little ways….

"Later," she promises, pulling back and wiping smudged lipstick from the corner of her mouth. I know I've got it all over my face again, and she helps me get rid of most of it. "Him first."

I sigh. I was hoping she'd forgotten about that. The jazz music floats through the door as we walk towards the guards, each one holding a Tommy gun. Him wasn't skimping on the protection tonight.

She makes for the door, and the one on the left reaches out his hand to catch her around the wrist.

"Invites only," he grunts. She smiles, fluttering those lashes of hers, that coat inching open just a tad.

"I think you can find room for me on the list, can't you, ace?" she lays her fingers on his arm, and he gulps. "Just one lonely girl and her friend?"

He nods dumbly, and his other partner slaps him in the arm. She turns those puppy-dog eyes on the other guy, and he melts just like the first guy. She has a way with fellas that has them in the palm of her hand.

"Enjoy the party, miss," the first one says, opening the door wide enough for the two of us to enter. I look at her.

"Smooth moves," I say, and she pats down her hair down.

Mr. Him isn't at all hard to find. He's in the center of attention, a glass of champagne in his hand, dressed in red and black with a flapper's feathered headdress in his slicked hair. Said flapper is sitting next to him, her cheeks red with booze and her dress red as his suit. She dressed to match him, and he's having the time of his life dragging her around like this. I know it because that's why I left.

"Mister Him," Bubbles says sweetly, "might I have a word in private?"

The flapper hiccups and giggles, and Mr. Him, not even looking at us, smiles.

"I'm tied up for the night, honey," he says lazily, "so you'll have to excuse me, Miss…" he trails off as he looks around at her, and his smile grows. "Well, well, well. How did you get in here, Miss Utonium?"

"A woman never reveals her secrets." She keeps it light. I know she's not feeling it, and neither is Him. Neither am I, for that matter. "A word, please?"

"You'll just have to excuse me," he shrugs. "I'm being entertained by Miss Morbucks tonight, in case you couldn't tell."

The redhead in the red dress hiccups again, but her eyes are narrow and bright and glaring daggers through Bubbles. I fasten my hand around her upper arm. The action draws Him's attention.

"But it looks like you're already busy this evening," Him simpers. "Who may I ask…?" He trails off as I tip my hat back. His smile doesn't waver, but it freezes on his face.

"If it isn't Little Mister Flyaway," he says, holding out his hammy hand. I shake it and wipe my hand off on my coat after he releases it. "As charming as this would be, you two will have to leave. Smith?"

Just as a huge bouncer starts wading towards us Bubbles starts talking fast. "We have something you'd be interested in hearing, Mister Him," she says. "Something I found about a Misters Ace, Jojo, and Lumpkins…?"

Him holds out his hand, and Smith halts, going back to his corner.

"Excuse me, darling," he says to Miss Morbucks, planting kisses on her hand and up her arm. She giggles, but her eyes don't leave Bubbles. We follow Him into his back office, where he shuts and locks the door.

"Some cognac for either of you?" he asks, pouring the amber liquid into three decanters already filled with ice. Bubbles shakes her head, and I do likewise, although the heady smell makes me want to leap at the bottle and down the entire thing in two gulps. "What's this all about, Miss Utonium?"

"I'm afraid I found out some awful things about you, Mister Him," she says sweetly. "Things that could get you put away for a long time."

"And those would be?" he asks, his voice just as sugary. There's tension growing in the room, and it makes me itch.

"You're a bootlegger, Him," Bubbles replies. "I'm afraid Misters Ace, Jojo, and Lumpkins all confessed to receiving imported liquors from you. They're all behind bars. All I have to do is take you downtown and the little circle's complete, isn't it?"

"Now that's a fine plan," Him sets down his glass, "but how do you propose to get me downtown?"

"I'm placing you under arrest," she pulls out a pair of handcuffs, "and I don't intend on letting you go anywhere but the station."

I can tell it's going to get ugly quick. Him smiles, his hand inching for a drawer in his desk.

"You remember Coney Island, right?" Him says, and Bubbles stiffens. "That was a day, wasn't it? The boardwalk, the park, the boat…the hotel…" his voice trails off, and Bubbles is red-faced and shaking. She never could keep her emotions under control. Wears her heart on her sleeve, just like a cop isn't supposed to do. "I can bring it all back, darlin'. All you've got to do is to not arrest me here. If you do, things'll get…hairy." He pulled out the Tommy gun in his desk, and I flinch back instinctually. I'd gotten plenty of beatings with the butt of that thing as a kid. I was the only one who left a dent in it; not even Butch was stupid enough to hurt Him's baby. Bubbles controls herself and puts her hand on the desk.

"I'm not going to say it wasn't a swell time," she says softly, "but you should've known better before trafficking booze in my city, especially knowing I'm keeping tabs on you. No, Him, you're going downtown, and there's nothing you can do about it." Brave talk, considering she had a squirt gun in comparison to Him's weapon.

"I've been playing this game a lot longer than you, sweetheart," Him raises his gun. "It's been the bee's knees seeing you two again. I'll miss you when you're gone."

He pulls the trigger, and I dive for Bubbles, pulling her down behind the desk. It's hardwood; not all of the bullets make it through. Him walks around the desk, still shooting, and I pull out Old Blue and fire back. A miss; the feather explodes all over his hair. She shoots and hits his hand; he stops firing immediately, swearing up a blue streak and clutching his stump to his chest.

"Lucian Him," Bubbles takes her chance, yanking his arms behind his back and punching his wounded hand when he tries to muscle her away, "you are under arrest." She clips the handcuffs around his wrists and yanks him upright by the collar of his coat. "And I suggest you stay that way if you want to make it out of here alive."

"That's swell, Bubbles," I say sourly, "but how did you plan on getting out of here?"

"Easy," Bubbles shoves her gun against Him's back, and the old man grimaces even worse. He's panting a little, his face completely red. The front of his suit is shiny from where he bled on himself, and he's dripping on the carpet. "Now, Mister Him, you tell your boys to stand down or I shatter your spine. If they try to manhandle me or Boomer, it goes in your head. Do we understand each other?"

Him laughs, a strained sound. "I'll get out," he says. "You know I won't stay there forever."

"I beg to differ," she smiles sweetly. "See, the warden doesn't take kindly to runaways. He has a nasty habit of hunting them down."

At the mention of her friend Bullet I wince. My last encounter with him didn't go so well; I had the scars to prove it.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, sugar," Him goes for a nonchalant front, but it's a little ruined by the tic in his jaw. "Are we gonna go, or are you going to let me escape again?"

She jabs his back, and we start walking, out the door and back to the party that didn't hear a thing. Miss Morbucks sees us, and I curse.

"Trouble at five o'clock," I whisper in Bubbles' ear, and she glances to see Miss Morbucks storming towards her with murder in her eyes. "I'll handle this."

"Be quick," she whispers back, herding Him towards the door. I peel off and open my arms as Miss Morbucks approaches.

"Well, well, if it isn't Miss Princess Morbucks," I say loudly, and she's distracted for a moment. Good. "You're looking fine tonight, darlin'. Dance with me."

I manuever her out to the dance floor, right in the thick of everyone, and once there she reaches back her arm to slap me. I catch it before it connects and lean in close.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, missy," I say softly. "There are plenty of other rich, powerful men in this room to be throwing your pretty self at. Looks like Mister Sglue managed to make it; why don't you go attach yourself to him?"

"We had a date," she pouts, and I see I need to bring in the big guns.

"He'll have to reschedule," I lie. "Something came up, but he'll call you back, okay? Go on and dance with someone else. He'll be back soon."

If she wasn't so drunk, it never would have worked. She nods slowly, turning on her heel and falling right onto some other yuppie who's more than happy to pick her up. I wrestle my way back to the door. Bubbles is already out; the door has a few bloody spots on it. I push it open and see that the elevator is closing. Just as I almost get my foot in Him kicks back and gets her right in the stomach. She doubles over, dropping her gun for an instant. In that instant he jumps and loops the handcuffs around his feet so his hands are in front of him, and he has the chain of the handcuffs around her neck before either one of us can do anything. He has the lift operator open up the door, and I go to get in, but he pulls back on the chain and she makes a choking sound that stops me in my tracks.

"No, no, Boomer, you stay put," Him smirks. "We're going to leave, and you're going to stay put until the lift comes back around. Don't follow us, or I'll have to do something awful to Detective Utonium here." The doors start closing again. "It's been a fun time, kid."

I can't do anything but fume and panic as the doors close. She's still gasping for breath, those beautiful blue eyes of hers wide and fixed on me. The second the doors close I bolt for the stairs, taking them three at a time and swearing with every step. I pause to watch Him literally drag her away, and for a heart-stopping second she looks actually...you know...like a stiff. But then her leg reaches out and she digs that pointy little heel into his shin, and he yells. I take my chance and run as fast as I can towards them. He pulls the chain tighter against her neck, and she starts spluttering...nothing to do but tackle him, I conclude, bringing him down and making him lose his focus enough to loosen the chain. It slides off her neck and up her face, just where she can get her teeth around it and yank. The cuff scrapes against where half his hand used to be and he yells again, but he can't do anything much because of my hands crushing down on his windpipe. She wriggles out of the mess and Him starts wheezing, his pointed-toe shoes kicking.

"Let him go," Bubbles says softly, and I ignore her for a minute before pulling out Old Blue and shoving the barrel against his cheek. Him gasps for breath, reaching up with his good hand to massage his throat. To my surprise, he starts laughing again.

"Very good," he chokes. "Well, Boomer, I guess I underestimated you. Maybe you do have the guts to take up the family business."

"Shut it," I growl, unwilling to admit that I'd never been able to give it up. Killing was what I was best at; just not for Him. Clean killings, I guess. Criminals. Low-lifes. I answer the bounties, I collect the earnings. It's not to further my ambition; just to pay the bills. "Bubbles, I think it's time to call backup."

She nods and walks to the pay phone against the wall in the corner of the lobby, and within ten minutes we're surrounded by cops. Him is muscled into the back of a cruiser, and Bubbles is embraced by her sisters. The redhead, Blossom, looks at me. I always feel uneasy around her. She's always wearing a dress and suit jacket with some sort of red or pink flower on her lapel. Official. Powerful. Just like the chief of police she is.

"Thanks for your help, Mister Boomer," she says, holding out her hand. I make sure my hand isn't bloody and shake hers. "Is there anything we can do for you tonight?"

"No, ma'am," I shake my head, my gaze wandering to where Bubbles is talking with her other sister, Buttercup (dressed in a suit pinstriped in green and a hat to match, her hair bobbed and her mouth in a smile for once). Bubbles looks tired and bloody and beautiful, and once her eyes meet mine I know what's going to happen.

She'll say bye to her sisters for the night. Maybe something will happen tonight, maybe not, but either way she'll have to say goodbye again and vanish for another few months. Then the whole cycle starts again. She breaks my heart every time this happens. Maybe if I were smarter I'd try saying "No" more often.

But, as her fingers lace with mine and we find ourselves back where we started years ago, I never was a very smart guy. She'll leave again in the morning, but before she does I get to hold her close and kiss her poor bruised throat and run my hands through her hair one more time.

The sun comes up early in this town, too.

* * *

A/N: I swear I'm still alive! I am not a zombie, Inferius, or otherwise animated dead body come back to haunt you! XD (It's early. Sue me.)

This, as many of you may have guessed, is my original 1920s PPG piece, the piece that started it all and which is one of those pieces which I'm both proud of and never want to see again. So now I can move on. :D Boomer MIGHT be a little more dramatic in this one; hazard of seeing too many moving pictures and reading too many cheap novels. Poor soul. :D

QUILLY IS OUT, PEACE. OH PS REVIEW PLZ.


	33. Chapter 33

33. Expectations

It came as almost no surprise to anyone in Town when Buttercup Whitecastle eloped.

From the time she was a small child she had shocked her family's closest acquaintance (and many outside of it) with her brash temper and bold way of speaking. She was a well-bred girl, and knew her manners when forced or reminded, but on the whole the middle Miss Whitecastle both entranced and horrified the community. It was at her insistence that she was let out into society with her elder sister (and emboldened by this victory, young Miss Bubbles Whitecastle gained the same privilege), and for the first year or so did nothing but flirt with gentlemen (though she would resist vehemently and call it "socializing" or "being friendly" rather than flirting, but Town fancied that it knew better).

There was a spot of near-disgrace, when Miss Whitecastle was about sixteen, involving a scandalously, openly passionate relationship with a Mr. Greene. The entire Town was all aflutter about the affair; it was said that on the night Miss Whitecastle and Mr. Greene planned to run away together, Miss Whitecastle's own sisters intervened, saving her from a marriage as imprudent as it would have been unhappy, once Mr. Greene had spent the whole of Miss Whitecastle's fortune on gambling and gaming. Miss Whitecastle made her distress and anger public, refusing to go into Town with her family and purposely picking fights with other well-bred young ladies who had the misfortune of exulting their engagements in her presence.

The unpleasant turn of her manners passed, and on her seventeenth birthday she was as civil as ever. She was, perhaps, a little more cautious of her friendships with members of the opposite sex, and renewed her trust and friendship in her sisters, but it was long before she could step outside her home without hearing the gossip published by some flapping tongue. She remained, as she ever was, with a bold tongue and a wit perhaps too quick for her own good.

Upon the eve of her twentieth year, she and her sisters met a trio of brothers, and the talk in Town then was completely taken over with predictions of a triple joining of the Whitecastle and Ravencroft houses. The engagement that first took place was not with the eldest, as most thought, but with the youngest; Miss Bubbles Whitecastle and Reverend Boomer Joseph announced their engagement and were the first to be married. This seemed to spur the others into action; not long after the first engagement was made a second followed; Lord Ravencroft found his Lady, and Blossom Whitecastle was more than happy to tie herself to Brick Joseph for the remainder of her days.

Now Town watched and waited as the remaining Whitecastle and Joseph sister and brother became more and more flagrantly public; before, they seemed to have learned a touch of propriety (Captain Butch Joseph was famous, before his service, for gambling, drinking, and living in general decadence), giving hope to many in their acquaintance before the engagements.

The engagement was announced by Captain Joseph's own brother, who had married them with a small party consisting of family and only the closest of friends. The newlyweds were nowhere to be found and half of Town was convinced, although not surprised, that Reverend Joseph had made the tale up to cover up the affair with a blanket of decency.

A week or more passed, and Buttercup Joseph made her reentry into society, this time sporting a comfortably small gold band and a fine wardrobe she assured everyone her sisters had purchased for her, herself having not the mind for fine silks and muslins. Captain Joseph seemed in finer spirits than any of his acquaintance could recall seeing him in before, and his coat seemed particularly fine after his marriage. Many still whispered that Miss Whitecastle had fallen into another trap set by a man desperate for her money, but of course, those were lauded as false by anyone who knew the Captain and his wife and by the Captain's wife herself, who, true to form, verbally attacked anyone who attacked her husband or her state of marital felicity.

It was not perfect, of course; being such spirited, passionate people, alike in many ways and not alike where it counted, Captain Butch Joseph and Mrs. Buttercup Joseph had many, many disagreements that went public (one of Town's favorite of these often all-too-easily-heard "disagreements" had ended with the Captain locked out of his own home, ignored by his servants, and forced to spend the night on his doorstep before the Missus would let him back in). After dealing so long with Miss Whitecastle's antics, Mrs. Joseph's were hardly less accepted or even expected.

She had made a name for herself in this Town, after all, and she was disposed to keep it.

* * *

A/N: Hey, hey, hey! :D Moar Jane Austen, for no reason other than that's what Expectations reminded me of. Plus also Greens. And stuff. Plus plus also I'm in the mood for mostly exposition and no dialogue today...for whatever reason...

Next chapter will be the companion to "Fortitude", or Chapter Twenty. I know. I'm a nut for spacing them out so far. But whatever. It called to me, so here we go. Enjoy the fluff.

REEEEEEVVVIIIIEEEEEWWWWW!


	34. Chapter 34

34. Stars

Butch looked up, his breathing even as he studied the sky. He was lying on his back on some cliff in the middle of the desert; which desert, he had no clue. He was just here for the fun of it.

There were stars as far as the eye could see, millions of 'em. More than even Butch's enhanced eyes could count or see. Regular people talked about starlight a lot, but they didn't know what it really looked like unless they came someplace like this.

She told him once that she liked to stargaze.

He didn't try to push the thought out of his head. He was done with that, and had been for a while. So long as he was stranded out here with his stupid brothers, he was going to think whatever the crap he wanted to.

The ground was warm and hard under him. Reminded him of the time when she sent him crashing down on the beach and he'd landed so hard and fast he made glass in his wake. That fight ended in a rousing game of shark attack and a broken jaw from his teasing comments. Hey, she was the one who decided to wear a white shirt and then go swimming in the ocean with him.

A shooting star shot across his line of vision. He imagined it had a lime green tint and then thought about all the times he'd seen a green stripe flash across the sky in his life. His favorites were when she was bearing down right on him. Fire in her eyes, her teeth bared, her shirt flapping in her slipstream…made his mouth water every time.

He missed her now. He could waste time trying to deny it, but what good would that do? He was miserable without her and knew it.

The moon beamed bright in the sky, too. He thought about carving her a message in its face and decided he'd save that for when he got back. If he got back.

He sighed.

He watched the stars for a very long time, his mind someplace where a punch in the face meant so much more than "I hate you."

* * *

A/N: This is the companion to Chapter Twenty, which was Fortitude and the one where Buttercup was angry and missing Butch. So here's Butch sad and missing Buttercup. I don't know, guys.

Thanks for the reviews and stuff. They make my life. :D

NOW LEAVE MORE.


	35. Chapter 35

35. Hold My Hand

"Daddy?"

Boomer knelt down and opened his arms for his daughter to run into. She did, turquoise eyes alight with the smile her mouth didn't show, dark brown hair bouncing.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, kissing the side of her head. "What are you doing up? I thought your brother put you to bed hours ago."

"I couldn't sleep," she replied. "Hayley kept kicking me." To illustrate her point she showed him the blossoming bruise on her hip. Boomer touched it, sighing. He still didn't get how a eighteen-month-old kid had the power to do that to her older sister by four years, but weird things were a normal occurrence here.

"Brendan can put some ice on it when he wakes up," Boomer smiled, stroking her hair out of her face. "You can go sleep in my bed."

"Where are you going, Daddy?" she asked, in that sweetly innocent voice only she could pull off. Boomer paused, halfway on his feet again, and squatted back down.

"Daddy has some things he needs to take care of," he said. "I won't be gone too long, I promise."

He had his hand on the door when her voice popped up again. "Brendan says you're doing bad things."

He paused, his brain working as fast as it could to come up with a reply. He sighed again, turning back around.

"Carrie, honey," he said in a quiet voice, "you like living here, right?"

Carrie nodded.

"Sometimes, Daddy can't always afford to keep you three fed and clothed and with a place to live, so he has to go and borrow from other people," he explained. "Maybe it's wrong, but it isn't always so bad, being wrong. If you're warm and safe and happy, then it's okay. See what I mean?"

Carrie nodded again, a little more uncertainly. She waited until he was almost outside before voicing her next question.

"Where's Mommy?"

Boomer released the crumpled doorknob and turned around again, doing his level best not to slam the door. He didn't want to scare Carrie; she was just a kid, for heaven's sake. She was going to ask sooner or later.

"I don't know," Boomer shrugged. "I haven't seen her in a while."

"Brendan says she isn't coming home," Carrie said, her eyes wide. "He says you made her mad and she won't come home anymore."

Boomer made a mental note to smack Brendan upside the head at the nearest opportunity and have a little chat with his son about running his mouth. Not that he was one to talk.

"Yeah, we had a fight," Boomer nodded. "And she's taking a little longer to cool off than usual. But she'll be back. She's always come back before, right?"

"Right," Carrie smiled, more out of acceptance of her father's words than actual knowledge.

"Come on," Boomer grinned, scooping Carrie up, "I'll tuck you in."

He carried her into his bedroom and laid her on the empty bed, pulling the sheets up to her chin and kissing her forehead.

"Sleep tight," he whispered, and she nodded, her eyes already closing. He paused by the one room that housed his other children; on the mattress on the floor was ten-year-old Brendan, his bright golden hair tousled, and tucked in the crook of his arm was baby Hayley, her black ringlets sticking to her brother's sweaty arm. He watched them for a moment before realizing Hayley's deep blue eyes were fixed on him. She didn't blink or do much more than stare as Boomer quirked a half-hearted grin at her and leave.

He didn't hear her follow him until her tiny hand closed around his finger.

"Dada," she said solemnly, tugging insistently back towards the inside of the house. "Dada."

"I gotta go," he said, unwilling to look into the face that looked so much like _hers_. "I'll be back later, I promise."

"Dada?" she asked, her face crumpling as Boomer opened the door again.

"Dad, come on," Brendan's sleep-ridden voice drifted through the hall. The boy himself followed, emerald eyes glazed with exhaustion. "Don't go."

Carrie was up again, following the sounds of her sister's near-silent sobs. "Daddy?"

Boomer looked up into the sky, offering a silent prayer to whatever god was up there for strength. He turned around and knew he shouldn't have; Brendan had Hayley in his arm and was trying to soothe her, and Carrie was clinging to his side, his other arm around her. Brendan's face was ice, daring him to do exactly what he was thinking about doing.

"Go ahead, then," he said softly. "Leave. Just like you made Mom leave."

Boomer bit back the retort that desperately wanted to break loose. Another voice suddenly turned his insides to molten lava.

"Yeah, Boom," it whispered. "Leave."

Boomer whirled around to see Buttercup, a stony expression twisting up her face and a tower of brown-paper bags filled with groceries next to her.

"Like you have any right to be ordering me anywhere," Boomer snarled, backing up a little to shield his kids. "You're the one that left, remember?"

Buttercup snorted. "Get out of the way. I want to see my kids."

"Make me," Boomer challenged. Her eyebrows rose.

Behind him she could see Carrie's eyes travelling between her father's guarding back and her mother's defiant sneer, and see her knuckles clutch more tightly around the fabric of Brendan's pajamas. Buttercup sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Take the groceries inside," she snapped at Boomer. "I've got something to say to my kids."

Boomer didn't move for a full thirty seconds, his eyes darting between the groceries and Buttercup's face. He then huffed, picking up half of the bags and stomping into the kitchen. Buttercup looked down for a minute, then looked back up, taking a tentative step towards Brendan and the girls. He didn't step back, but he didn't look glad to see her, either. She took it slow, taking it step by step, until she was close enough to hug them. She didn't move, looking at the accusing and even scared faces looking back at her.

"You were gone," Brendan said.

"I know I was," she said softly. "I'm sorry I left you here."

"If you were just going to get food, why couldn't you just have stayed here?" he asked, tears pricking his eyes. "Why did you have to leave?"

"It doesn't take two weeks to get groceries," Boomer quipped from his second trip to the landing to get the groceries. Buttercup wordlessly growled at him and he rolled his eyes, bringing the rest inside.

"Mommy had some thinking to do," Buttercup turned back to her kids. "And what I've decided," she raised her voice, "has to do with you, too, moron, so get in here."

"You're the one that told me to get the groceries put away," he groused, proud that his super-speed had allowed him to finish barely a second and a half prior. "What do you want?"

Buttercup looked each child in the face in turn, then turned her gaze on Boomer. He stared back, searching her face for some indication of what she was thinking. In a flash of green light her fist was dragging him by the shirt forward, and her strong arms were crushing him and the kids together.

"I missed you guys," she said, in a voice only audible to Boomer. "And I kinda missed _you_, Boomer."

"You mean it?" he murmured back. Her arms loosened so she could take his face in her hands, smoothing her thumbs across his cheeks as his eyes moistened. She grinned.

"Crybaby."

"One of us has to be the emotional one here," he replied, blinking as fast as he could. "Seeing as how you're a soulless robot."

Her fist drove into his gut, and he went to bend double and wheeze; the breath was lost as she ducked under his face and their lips connected.

"I hate it when you do that," he said when she released him. "I really, really do."

Carrie's arms were around Buttercup's knees and Hayley was half-strangling her in a hug, but Buttercup had just enough attention to spare from her children to throw him a cocky smile. She didn't say anything, just stretched out her free hand across Brendan's shoulders to grab Boomer's.

That said enough for the both of them.

* * *

A/N: Shut up. I'm allowed to experiment.

That being said, this story came out of left field; we were having a fun time on LJ discussing different pairings and their spawn when someone mentioned Buttercup and Boomer, and since they are my brOTP already, I thought of them as an actual couple instead of just buds, and this thing was born. Totally OOC and stupid, but I kinda like it, in a way.

REVIEW AND TELL ME NEVER TO DO THIS AGAIN. XD


	36. Chapter 36

36. Precious Treasure

It was hard for Brick to pinpoint the exact moment when he realized he cared about Bubbles.

She danced through life, always glowing with the light of innocence and sparkling like sunlight. Brick kept to himself and hid in the shadows. He liked it that way.

Of course, she wouldn't have that. She was too sweet for her own good. She couldn't exist in a world where she didn't at least try to include everyone, to make sure everyone around her knew she cared about them in some small way.

She did it for Brick by dragging him on the dance floor their freshman year at Homecoming, kicking and screaming.

For one glorious moment, his hands awkward on her waist and her chatter creating an annoying buzz in his ear, he felt…important. Maybe it was because her smile was particularly wide when she looked at him that night, or maybe he was just fooling himself. Whichever it was, when she sat by him at lunch the next Monday he was secretly glad.

For three years he tried to get rid of her. He snapped at her, insulted her, pushed her away, took to eating his lunch on the roof, tried skipping lunch altogether. She followed him everywhere, her blue eyes wide and curious. He stopped trying so hard eventually.

He asked her to Prom their senior year, with many a stammer and glare at his shoes, crushing the rose he'd brought for good measure in his fist. She had to tell him no; someone had already asked her. He nodded and walked away.

That day she didn't eat lunch with him. Not because she didn't want to; she couldn't find him.

Prom came. Brick didn't go. He sat in his room, staring at a spot on the ceiling, twiddling his thumbs, thinking of all the ways he could have asked better and plotting a hideous revenge for her date. There was a tap at his window. He didn't get up.

The window slid open, and the scent of warm vanilla perfume wafted in as Bubbles slipped inside, still wearing her elaborate Prom dress. Brick sat up, a snarl forming on his mouth. She smiled sweetly at him, holding out one of her hands.

"Come on," she said, "there's something I want to show you."

Whatever possessed him to go with her Brick would never know. She pulled him outside, floating effortlessly. He floated along, noticing that she was also barefoot.

She landed in a gazebo strung with lights in the middle of a pond in Townsville Park. The lights were blue and red and he knew she'd done it herself. He didn't know why he knew. He just did, the same way he knew what she wanted when she put her arms around his neck.

There was no music. She didn't need any. She danced, pulling him along with her, the way she'd pulled him along all through high school. There was moonlight shining on the smooth surface of the pond, and birds singing, and crickets chirping, and Bubbles, Bubbles with her blue eyes and golden hair and sweet laugh.

She didn't say anything this time. She just smiled.

Incredibly, Brick found himself smiling back.

His hands gripped her a little tighter and vowed to never let her go.

But he did let her go. He had to. Because he yelled at her a few short months later.

It was over something stupid, and he hated that he did it, but guilt cared not for these things as her eyes filled with tears and she took off, leaving him to wallow in his angry misery. A part of him was content to have his privacy back. He was glad, he tried to tell himself, that she wasn't sticking her nose where it didn't belong anymore.

He left a dandelion in a vase on her windowsill and hoped she knew he was sorry.

If she did, she didn't show it. Graduation came and went. College was approaching. Still no word, no smile, no laugh.

It was the night before he left Townsville for good before she told him she forgave him. He was back in the gazebo, the lights gone, throwing rocks at the moon's reflection, when she appeared. Brick stared at her for a moment. She gave an apologetic smile and held out her hand.

They danced for a third time. Brick felt like a tenth-grader all over again. He said he was sorry and she said it was okay.

The fourth time, they danced across the surface of the pond, floating above the gently stirring water. He took her face in his hands and kissed her, just to see what it felt like. To his satisfaction, it felt great.

The fifth time they danced, she was dying.

She called it chemical poisoning. He called it the end of the world.

Brick danced one final time. It was not with Bubbles. It was with the wind. He left a half-crushed dead rose on her grave, along with a string of broken red and blue lights and a shingle from the old gazebo.

He lived on, became successful, gained riches and power and all the other things he tried to fill his heart with. Without her, it was too empty. He sealed it away in a box where he kept a faded picture of a pretty blond girl in a blue dress and smooth chunk of wood her feet once grazed over.

He labeled this box "treasures" and kept it in a vault, far away from his office and anywhere he'd have to look at it.

The day he died, an old man, he heard music made of the wind and crickets and the creaking of wooden planks underfoot. For only the sixth time in his life, he felt loved.

* * *

A/N: UGH. This could have been done SO much better. Anyway, felt like continuing the mix-it-up trend for the next couple of stories. It's forcing me to think of the characters in different ways. Brick sucks it up this time around. X( I'll just have to try again later.

Anyway. Something sad and sweet for Bubbles/Brick that should probably go die in a hole, but whatever.

Review, and this time, tell me what you think about the characterization and the fic as a whole. I will bite you if you say "THIS SUX NEVAR WRITE ANYTHING OTHER THAN REGULAR PPG/RRB AGAIN."

EDIT: Everyone thank Tim the Paperclip; she(?) helped me fix the fourth dance and make it more awesome. THANK YOU, HUNNY.


	37. Chapter 37

37. Eyes

Blossom woke up with a pounding headache and the most foreboding sense of déjà vu.

She could feel another body in the bed; his cold feet were pressed to the back of her legs, his heels digging into the curve of her knees. He was also snoring. Loudly.

She looked groggily at the clock on the hotel bedside table. 10:23. She scrunched a hand through her hair, letting a calm sigh escape her nose. Now or never, she thought, her stomach clenching as she rolled over. Who she saw there made her swear (and she didn't particularly care this time; under duress even the most civilized of people had to let one loose).

Butch grunted and rolled over in his sleep just as she did, clutching one of the pillows to his chest. He'd drooled on it for what appeared to be half the night, Blossom noticed, crinkling her nose at the sticky wetness. The exposing of his wet cheek to open air seemed to rouse him; he yawned, blinking sleep away slowly. He saw her. He cursed. He rolled over so quickly he fell out of bed, scrambling to get to his feet. She tossed him the comforter, keeping the sheets wrapped tight around her torso.

"Say what you want, princess, that time was _completely_ your fault," he cried, knotting the comforter around his waist. "I was minding my own business."

"And how is it," she asked acidly, "that you minding your own business tends to land us here more often than not?"

"You're the one who goes to bars you know I'm at," Butch shrugged, grinning and sitting on the edge of the bed. "Well, what do we do now?"

"I suppose we'll just have to—" she paused while pushing her hair back from her forehead. Something cold and metal brushed her skin. Closing her eyes tightly, she thrust her hand at Butch.

"What exactly is this?"

"Uh…a ring?" he offered.

"What kind of ring?"

"Looks like a blinged-out Ring Pop. What're you—?"

Blossom opened her eyes and looked down, then shrieked. Set on a metal ring painted gold was indeed a large candy gem; it looked as though it'd been licked a few times and possibly knocked against something; it was cracked and had some of her hair wound around it. She covered her eyes with her hands, rocking back and forth. Butch watched her, only mildly concerned, until she took off the ring and threw it at him. The metal pinged off his eye and caused him to swear again.

"What was that for?"

"A Ring Pop?" she suddenly screamed at him, uncovering her face and throwing a pillow at him. "Of all things, you had to pick out a _Ring Pop_?"

"Pick out a Ring Pop for what?" he yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. She pointed her finger at his bedside table. Immediately he saw the problem.

"Certificate…of…Marr—oh," he gaped, looking back at Blossom with wide green eyes. "Well, crap." He saw a matching Ring Pop hanging off the lamp. "At least I have _taste_." He waggled his eyebrows at her, but she was glaring so ferociously he quailed and shut up.

"There's got to be a way to fix this," she said, more to herself than anything. She reached for his shirt, lying a short distance from her side of the bed, and pulled it on. She threw his pants, which she found stuffed at the foot of the bed under the covers, at him. Then she started pacing. "A quiet divorce, that's what we need…I think I can pull some strings and get one drawn up by the end of this week, nothing long or drawn-out…"

Butch watched her pace, then picked up the ring she'd thrown at him (lime, he noticed, pulling her hair off of it). He pulled on his pants and went to his side of the bed, picking up his own ring (cherry, he thought amusedly, sneaking a lick) and sliding it on his finger. He then stood off to the side, watching her pace and mutter, noticing the fabric of his shirt fluttering around her legs and errant strands of her hair sticking up at odd angles.

"Blossom," he grunted. She didn't appear to have heard.

"—long as the newspapers don't find out, they'll have a field day—"

"Blossom," he insisted.

"—leave town for a while, call it business leave, they'll never suspect—"

He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to halt. "_Blossom._"

"I don't want to talk to you," she pouted childishly, squirming. He took brief but great pleasure in the fact that he was the only person he knew who could make her lose her composure like that.

"Well, I have an idea," he said. "What if we stay married?"

She didn't speak for a full minute, her rosy eyes wide, mouth ajar. He picked up her hand, sliding the Ring Pop back on and grinning a mile wide.

"I've lost track of how many times we've done this. Just hook up and then wake up and get all flustered and say it'll never happen again. I'm sick of it." He shoved his hands in his pockets, unaware of the pocket lint collecting on his ring. "Figure it'll be easier to explain if we stay hitched. Know what I mean?"

She still didn't speak, but she was blinking, as though processing what he'd just said. She took an absent lick on her Ring Pop then glared at it, putting her hand up to wrench it off. Butch felt that desperate times called for desperate measures, grabbed her face, and planted a smacking, wet kiss on her.

She kicked and struggled, making muted, enraged sounds Butch found absolutely adorable, to tell the truth. The taste of lime in her mouth melted with the cherry flavor in his, and after a fierce moment he slitted his eyes open.

It wasn't a very clean kiss; he could feel their faces smooshed together like awkward thirteen-year-olds. Her eyes were wide open, but…softer, somehow, as she watched him kiss her. He released her, wiped his mouth, and sighed, shrugging.

"I dunno. I just…" he bit his tongue, feeling more than he thought he'd ever felt before and unable to put words to it. He shrugged again.

She slapped him across the face, chunks of lime flying in his hair as the candy finally broke. Without missing a beat he unstuck his own ring from around his finger and yanked her forward by the hair, wrapping the ends around the stickiness. She shrieked and punched him in the chest, but—and he thoroughly believed he was hallucinating for a moment—she was laughing.

"Oh," she gasped, hiccupping as she calmed down. "Just…Butch…" she sat down on the bed, and with no other explanation promptly began to cry.

"Um—what?" he asked weakly, squatting down by her. "Oh, man. Uh…there, there," he said meekly, patting her shoulder. "We can get the divorce if you want, I was just—"

She grabbed his arm and pulled him up on the bed next to her, then with very little ado kissed him so hard they both fell back onto the bed. When she was done she pulled back and rolled off of him, lacing her fingers over her stomach as Butch crossed his arms behind his head.

"So…what now?" he asked casually. His lips tingled. When he smacked them they still tasted of cherry-lime candy. She sighed.

"Butch," she said very slowly and evenly, "to not get a divorce would be idiotic. Even if we waited, the marriage would be as far from happy as possible. I'm smart and orderly and I like my peace and quiet. You are not smart, not orderly, and as…rowdy…as possible."

"That's how it is, toots," he said, feeling curiously numb. "I like who I am. Ain't gonna change it just for you."

"That's the thing," Blossom replied, and he looked over at her; his suspicion was confirmed when he saw the blush stealing across her cheeks. "I really don't want you to."

"Um…?" he quirked his eyebrows at her. She glanced at him and chuckled.

"Butch," she said, rolling back over on top of him, "you are chaos incarnate, you know that? Nothing you do has rhyme or reason. I can't figure out how someone could be so stupid and so ingenious at the same time." She smoothed his hair back from his forehead, running her fingers over his skin. It was a motherly gesture, made less so when her fingers tightened and then started mussing up the rest of his hair. "I went to the bar last night half out of stress, half out of desperation. Because, Butch," she put her finger over his mouth when he went to ask, "you are the only cure I know for stick-in-the-mud old me."

When she finished kissing him this time, he felt like he should say something, so he gave it a try. "Um…well…you're boring," he said, and when her eyes flashed he laughed. "I mean…you never change. Ever. You're just this…stable…thing. The only steady thing I know. So," he said, grabbing her legs and flipping her off him, crawling up next to her and planting awkward, sticky kisses over both of her eyes (he saw it in a movie once; apparently chicks loved that stuff), "I'll keep being stupid if you keep being there. Deal?"

"And I'll keep being boring if you keep being you," she nodded. "Deal."

The papers made every bit a sensational story out of Blossom and Butch's shotgun Ring Pop wedding as Blossom predicted. The funny thing was, she didn't much care how many burning eyes she had on her. Not while Butch kept telling lame jokes and poking her anger and being every bit as distracting as she knew he'd be.

* * *

A/N: Hey, guys. This SHOULD be the last in the mixed-up PPG/RRB series UNLESS I go and do another rotation. Y'know, Buttercup and Brick, Blossom and Boomer, Bubbles and Butch (actually, I think I might just do that...8D).

I'm actually semi-proud of this one. I started out just going, "How in heck am I supposed to figure this out? They're complete opposites! How would they-?" And then I thought of the movie "What Happens in Vegas." And it all clicked (but this is not exactly like the movie). A series of one-night stands, a less-than-cordial friendship springs up after the first few times it happens, and after a few years they get so smashed that they inadverdently get married. And don't ask me about the Ring Pops; my brain sometimes...

Review, because this Crazy Train ain't stopping for another three updates. VIVA LA WEIRD UNORTHODOXNESS!


	38. Chapter 38

38. Abandoned

"What are you doing here?"

The normal accusatory tone that would accompany these words is gone. Brick looks to see a dark-haired girl with green eyes drop into the barstool next to him, barefoot and dressed in a pair of slashed jeans and a baggy t-shirt over some ratty tank top. He studies her appearance carefully, noting fresh bruises and a half-healed cut on her lip, and goes for caution instead of hostility. She could very well be here to wipe the floor with his face, after all.

"Nothing," he shrugs. "You?"

She laughs, a harsh, hollow sound. "Nothing."

She orders vodka and has the bartender leave the bottle on the bar. She glares at the clear liquid in her shot glass before throwing it back, smacking her lips as it burned. Brick sips his beer and doesn't notice the sidelong glance she gives him. After another two shots it becomes apparent to Brick that Buttercup is something of a lightweight; her eyes are unfocused and she's swaying a little in her seat. She smashes the shot glass on the floor, picking up the bottle and taking huge gulps out of it, coughing and spilling alcohol everywhere in the process. She puts the bottle down more gingerly, laughing that sad laugh again and dragging her hair out of her face.

"They kicked me out," she said shortly, and to Brick's surprise her words were clear and steady. "My own sisters kicked me out. Said I was too harsh." She laughed again, twisted mirth behind this one. "All because I put Mojo in a coma for a month. Can you believe that? A coma. Not like I killed him." She giggles and takes another choking gulp of vodka. "So, slick, what're you in for?"

He didn't think one beer was enough to even give him a buzz, but something is obviously wrong; the words are out of his mouth before he can reel them back in. "They left me," he replies, his words tart. "My idiotic brothers thought they knew better and left."

"Sisters and brothers," Buttercup shakes her head, slamming the bottle on the bar hard enough to put a crack in the bar top. "What're they good for, huh?"

"Nothing," Brick says scathingly. His beer is gone. He reaches over and plucks the bottle out of her hand and tips it back himself. "I practically raised those ungrateful cockroaches."

"When Bubbles was in trouble, who saved her skin nine times out of ten?" Buttercup nodded darkly, taking the bottle back.

"Who didn't tell Him who really wrecked his favorite monster? Who took the beating instead of Butch? I did," he hissed, slamming his fist on the bar top.

"I didn't hear Blossom complain when she took on one too many monsters and I helped her out," she tightened her fingers around the bottle. "I'm pretty sure she was yelling for me to kill it."

"Who went to every single one of Boomer's stupid school plays when no one else would? Who drove him home when he got completely smashed and dumped at Prom? I did," Brick gritted his teeth.

"Siblings," Buttercup gurgled, slamming the bottle on the bar so hard it burst, drenching them both and the bartop with vodka. "You do everything for 'em, and where does it get you?"

In his brooding and fuzzy mind Brick registers that he's soaked and so is she. He floats towards her and pulls her arm around his shoulders, and they stumble towards the door. The bartender complains of the lack of payment, and two sets of lasers zap the vodka and set it on fire. That shuts him up.

She clings to his shirt and has her nose against his neck. She giggles about something and Brick can't hear.

"Hey," she says softly, "hey, hey, you." He can feel her smile against his skin. "You smell good. Did you know that?"

He shrugs and keeps trudging for home. He'd drop her off at her own house, but from the sound of things (and he has a little trouble keeping track of exactly what's been said), she doesn't have a house to go home to anymore. So he secures his arm around her waist and heaves her down the sidewalk. It becomes easier when her feet leave the sidewalk and she floats like some sort of deranged balloon at his side.

"I can't b-believe they kicked me out," she sniffs, and he looks down, momentarily panicked that she's about to cry. Her eyes are red, but dry, her expression more forlorn than anything. "I mean…they're still family, right? They're my sisters. I l-love 'em."

Brick floats up to his fire escape and lets them both in through the window, setting her gently on his couch. Her fingers are tight around his shirt and he doesn't want her to let go, anyway. He doesn't say that in his own emotionally stunted way, he loves his brothers, too. A little bit. Much less after they left him, but they're all he's got. He thinks about telling her this but doesn't.

"You can crash here tonight," he says quietly. "Sleep it off." He goes to stand up, but she yanks him back down. His face crashes into her arm, and in his hair he hears her muffled voice.

"Don't leave me," she whispers, whimpers. "Don't leave me by myself. Not again."

He shuffles around her until she's tucked in the curve of his body and his arms are around her. She rolls over, and her forehead is hairs away from his lips. She gives a tiny sigh, like a little kid settling into bed after being tucked in, and Brick's arms tighten around her. For one night, at least, it's nice to know that someone wants them both around.

* * *

A/N: Let me make something perfectly clear: I still ship traditional PPG/RRB. THIS IS AN EXPERIMENT, a way to test myself as a writer and to explore other facets of their characters. I'm NOT jumping ship (sort of...X) ), I am just trying new things.

That being said, GAIS I LUVVV THIS ONE. I don't know why, but everything about it is just AWESOME to me! Are they both probably out of character? Sure! But Buttercup is drunk and Brick is halfway there and they're both depressed, so IDK, my BFF Jill, I don't care!

Review, plz.


	39. Chapter 39

39. Dreams

Boomer clutches his bottle, fingers cracking the glass, staring at her. She obviously doesn't know what she's doing here; her bow seems wilted under the flashing neon lights, and the drink in her glass hasn't been touched. If it's hers at all. The group she came with is all on the dance floor.

She picks a loose thread from her hem, and he sizes her up, thinking in the back of his mind that even though he's a little tipsy he still might could take her on. He chews on his lip, watching her, wondering if she'll notice him first and if he's going to be the one with a mouthful of drywall before this night is through. He didn't come here to fight. He doesn't really want to right now.

Those pink eyes are fixed on her tapping fingers, and he has to appreciate that even in the matronly skirt and sweater combo she looks good. Her hair is perfectly in place, kept neat by that bow. He studies the bow. It could be made of steel for all he knew; her hair was a little _too_ rigidly in-place for his taste. He wonders for a moment what it would look like down and messy.

He really shouldn't have thought that, because then he starts thinking about asking her to dance. Not that he thinks she would, but maybe the asking would frazzle her up a little. Give him the opportunity to pull her hair, so to speak. It's nice hair. Sort of an autumnal color that reminds him of pumpkin pie.

He has a vision of getting up and asking her to dance, only to realize a few seconds later that it isn't a vision, he's actually walking towards her, and she noticed, and oh, crud, turn back, abort, abort—too late, she's looking at him and if he chickens out now she'll _know_. He doesn't know exactly what she'll _know_, but if she does, everything will go south and he'll never be able to face her again and it might have something to do with how much she intimidates him…

"Dyouwannadancewithme?"

"Excuse me?" she asks, and Boomer figures that it's a sort of victory. At least she didn't sock him.

"Do you want to dance?" he asks, unsticking the words as best he can. Her eyes are wide and he flexes his fingers and curls his toes, hoping she can't see the sweat dripping down his neck.

She laughs a little, too mirthless to be a giggle. "I must be out of my mind," she says, turning to her glass and throwing back whatever is inside (to be honest, he isn't trying too hard to figure it out—nerves at his own stupidity is churning his beer into bile). But she takes his hand, and he takes her to the dance floor.

Here, instinct kicks in. He forgets that she's an enemy and that he's not supposed to be here, forgets the danger in what he's doing, and lets go. He can bust a good move when he doesn't think about it. To his surprise, she's not bad herself—and once she tosses off the sweater and reveals the lace-topped cami beneath she gets a little more attractive. The crowd is active tonight, and they can hardly avoid being pressed together sometimes, but after a few minutes she's the one coming onto him. It's a little graceless, like she hasn't done it before, but the sentiment of the action is noted. He also notes that her skin is absolutely flawless.

He miscalculated his timing; the music goes from beat-heavy to sappy, and he almost runs in the opposite direction, but she winds her arms around his neck and he has to stay. The scent coming off of her is almost overpowering. Some kind of flower, he guesses. Her cheek is pressed against his neck, and he's hyperaware of both every movement of her body and the knowledge that if she wanted to she could seriously hurt him right now.

"What are you doing?" he asks despite himself. The question was meant for him, but she answers anyway.

"Once in a while," she murmurs in his ear, "I like to pretend I'm in a dream and do what I normally wouldn't do. Can you be my dream right now?"

Her voice is sleepy. He feels a little tired himself. And, hey, she's really pretty, and he's the one who asked her to dance in the first place, so he might as well see it to the end.

"Sure thing," he murmurs, and the little sigh she breaths against his neck just about kills him. He relaxes a little.

For one night, he can pretend that she isn't capable of killing him and be whatever she wants. Boomer has dreams too, after all.

* * *

A/N: To be honest witchoo...I don't know where this went. This was the hardest drabble to do. Heck, ANYTHING with Blossom is hard; I just can't seem to connect with her. But the Mixed PPG/RRB trend is almost over, and Blossom/Boomer is probably one I won't ever attempt again. It's just a little too...I dunno. Maybe I'll give it another go later.

Review and stuff.


	40. Chapter 40

40. Rum

The second she walked in the bar she had every man's attention in the joint, Butch's included. She was wearing a flowing skirt over that delicious little blue bikini, her hair in wind-tossed waves and her blue eyes bright in the light of the tiki torches. He had to hand it to her, she made the paradise around them pale a little.

He stared at her a while longer, watching the mob of guys around her grow, and returned to his piña colada (they even put it in a coconut here. Sweet). He nearly jumped through the roof when someone tapped his shoulder, someone who smelled like sun and sea.

"Mind if I sit here?" Bubbles asked sweetly, indicating the empty stool next to him. He shrugged.

"Help yourself."

She sat down daintily, looking at him. He glanced at her periodically, sometimes even at her face (what could he say? It was a distracting bikini). Suddenly she plucked his drink out of his hand and took a sip.

"Hey!" he protested, grabbing his coconut back. She smacked her lips.

"Ooh, that's good," she smiled. "Excuse me! Hank!"

The leathery barman turned around and, without even looking, passed her a piña colada. She took a long, sucking draw of it through her straw, eyes closed.

They drank in silence, but Butch was getting a little weirded out by how she kept staring at him. He finished his piña colada and tossed the coconut shell over his shoulder.

"Can I help you with something, sweetheart?" he asked. She shrugged.

"Can't a girl sit next to a big, strong, tough guy like you and drink in peace?" she replied, winking. He subconsciously flexed his arms a little as he shrugged back.

"I guess."

She finished her drink and ordered another. He watched her this time, mouth going a little dry every time she took another sip and her tongue flicked out to catch her straw.

"I'm on vacation," she said suddenly, putting down her coconut. She didn't look at all tipsy. He was impressed. "What about you?"

"Nah," he shook his head. "I live here. Got a big boat attraction to keep up with."

"What kind of boat?" she asked, eyes sparkling. He opened his mouth, got a brilliant idea, and grinned.

"How about I show you?" he asked, slipping off his barstool and offering her his hand. She took it and giggled.

* * *

"Welcome to the good ship _Horizon_, Miss Bubbles," Butch announced with an exaggerated wave of his hand, indicating the sloop drifting peacefully in her port. Her sails were furled, but a flag bearing a green skull on a black field waved lazily in the breeze. Her name was written in green on the side.

"Oh, wow!" she cried, practically breaking his fingers as she squeezed his hand. "I didn't know they still had pirate ships!"

"I found her at the bottom of the ocean," Butch bragged, grinning broadly. "Restored her myself and everything. It was tough, too. Most of her hull was rotten and I had to replace practically everything."

"Wouldn't it be easier just to say you built it?" Bubbles asked. He shook his head.

"Naw, see, I kept some important parts," he explained. "Come on up. I'll give you a tour."

They both knew perfectly well they could fly to the deck, but Butch made a big show of picking her up and floating upwards, setting her on the forecastle.

"Okay," he said, laughing a little as she stumbled with the gentle swell of the ship, "look down. See that statue on the end?"

"Yeah," Bubbles nodded. "Hey, it's a mermaid!"

"Yup. That's called a figurehead. Gives the ship a little personality," he explained. "That one there was on the original ship."

"It's pretty," Bubbles said. "What next?"

"Up here," he replied, taking her hand and leading her towards the opposite end. "Okay, see this wheel? The spokes are new," he indicated the knobs on the outside of the wheel, "but the wheel itself is completely original."

"Amazing," she sighed. "Anything else?"

He smiled. "Just one more thing."

He led her towards the cabin, pulling a crate out from under his bed. It was filled with barnacle-encrusted bottles, all sealed tight and containing an amber liquid.

"Is that…?"

"Real, authentic, ancient rum," he confirmed, "brewed…uh…a really long time ago." He cracked the top off of one, taking a deep whiff of the heady alcohol inside. "I only break this stuff out for special occasions. I only have another barrel of the stuff belowdecks, so I try to conserve it. Want some?"

She nodded, and he handed her a bottle. They went back outside to drink it.

"If you have a ship like this," Bubbles asked, gingerly flicking a barnacle bit off of the lip of her bottle, "why hang around here?"

Butch shrugged, taking a deep swig of his. "People pay me to go on little jaunts around the coast, so it's not like I never take her out on the water. It's a living."

"Yeah," Bubbles nodded, "but think of all the places you could go if you just set sail one day! Imagine discovering your own little island! Wouldn't that be cool?"

Butch looked out on the water. The moon made shining peaks on the restless ocean. The breeze whistled around the masts, creaking the rigging. The _Horizon_ tugged a little at her mooring line.

"Yeah," he said slowly, "it would be really cool." He drank more of his rum. "Tell the truth, that's why I brought her up in the first place. Thought maybe I'd make her shipshape again and go pirating." He laughed humorlessly. "I guess we all have to grow up someday, right?"

Bubbles didn't answer for a long time, taking a pensive swill of rum. He was about to make a comment about how warm it was when she spoke. "Who says?"

"Huh?"

"Who says you can't go sailing?" she asked. "I mean, why didn't you just go? Why don't you go right now?" She stood up. "Look out there. There's a whole wide world to explore. Nothing but open ocean and a good headwind, right?"

He looked back between her and the sea a few times. The _Horizon_ creaked again.

"Why did you name her the _Horizon_ if you weren't going to take her there?" Bubbles asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Butch didn't know if it was the rum making his decisions now or what, but he stood up, his eyes on the open sea.

"A boat needs a crew," he murmured. "Between the two of us and our super-speed, I'd say we could have her halfway to Hispaniola by dinnertime tomorrow."

"We?" Bubbles asked, taken aback. He looked at her and grinned.

"Captain needs a first mate," he said, putting his hands on her hips. "Your idea, baby doll. I'm not leaving without you."

Bubbles hesitated, then giggled, putting her arms around his neck.

"I'll need my suitcase."

"What for?" he asked.

"Well, I have different bathing suits than this one," she informed him. "I think I have a white one you'll like."

Then he kissed her.

A wind whipped through the palm trees, and before it died the _Horizon_ was on her way towards the open sea, an empty rum bottle bobbing in her wake.

* * *

A/N: Hello, hello! This is the last in my mixed PPG/RRB series, so breathe easy-you won't have to deal with them again for a while. XD For some reason, this second round, they all ended up meeting in bars. I don't understand my brain. WHY, BRAIN, WHY. Also original Quilly is original. Wheeeeeee.

Review, lovies, I love hearing from you!


	41. Chapter 41

41. Teamwork

"What _is_ it?" Boomer frowned, prodding the mushy pink thing sitting in the basket.

"Maybe Mojo's been running a little crazy with the experiments again," Brick philosophized. He wrinkled his nose. "It stinks."

"It's moving, look!" Butch pointed out, alarmed. All three boys leapt behind the couch, crying out as one:

"_Hiiiiiimmmm!_"

"What is it, you little hooligans?" Him, Master of all Evil and currently wearing a bathrobe and a hairnet, hissed, bursting into the living room. "_What_ could be so important that you interrupted my bathtime?"

"It's moving!" Boomer said by way of explanation, pointing towards the wriggling bundle. Him stalked towards it, grumbling under his breath, then paused. A slow smile began growing on his face.

"Oh, boys," he purred, "you called me in here and interrupted my full-body beauty cleanse," he held up the bundle in his claws, voice growing harsh, "for a _baby?_"

"What's a baby?" Boomer asked.

"It's gross," Brick said stoutly.

"Why's it here?" Butch frowned.

"A baby is a tiny human," Him instructed. "I don't know why it's here or where your father is, but until I'm done and Mojo returns, you three are going to have to make sure you don't break the baby."

"Why do we have to take care of it?" Butch whined.

"I don't even want a dog! Why we gotta look after a baby?" Brick complained.

"It's leaking!" Boomer pointed out, alarmed.

Him sighed, tucking the baby in the crook of one arm and rubbing the bridge of his nose with his free claw. The baby gurgled and giggled.

"Babies are easy to take care of. Just make sure it doesn't wander off or put something sharp in his mouth and you'll be fine. _Now take it_."

Him dumped the baby in Brick's arms and stalked back to the bathroom, slamming the door. Brick looked down at the baby, Boomer and Butch peeking around his shoulders. The baby blew bubbles.

"Hot potato!" Brick said suddenly, tossing the baby at Boomer. Boomer caught it upside down. The baby clapped its hands and giggled.

"Uh—uh—uh—hot potato!" Boomer cried, lobbing the baby towards Butch. Butch made to catch it and spun out of the way at the last minute. A second before the baby was about to hit the floor Him materialized again and caught it, this time a towel around his midsection and his eyes on fire.

"_This is not how you treat a baby!_" Him shrieked horribly. "_Sit down!_"

Obediently the boys floated to the couch, albeit with much mumbling and grumbling.

Him paced, the baby in his arm again. His hooves slapped the floor with wet squelching noises.

"Babies," he said delicately, "are one of those things that not even the evilest of evil are able to hurt. Goes against all kinds of codes and regulations, you see, and no matter how much we'd like to pinch their little heads," Him smiled, tracing the baby's head with the tip of his claw, "something about hurting babies goes from evil to something a little…darker. With heavier consequences than your usual larceny and destruction. And since no one is allowed to be eviler than me," he smirked, "you three have to be _gentle_ and _careful_ with the _baby_."

All three boys glared at the soft little meatsack in Him's arms.

"If you boys can take care of this_ precious little bundle of joy_ until I am completely done, I will take you for ice cream once Mojo gets back. Can you handle that?"

"Yes, Him," the boys chorused dully.

"Good," Him simpered. "If I hear so much as a whimper from this baby, I will come out here and _spank_ _you so hard you won't be able to fly or sit for a month_. Are we clear?"

The boys nodded, scowling. Him smiled, put the baby in Boomer's lap, and strutted back to the bathroom.

Butch and Brick crowded around Boomer again, looking at the baby. It was frowning, looking strained and making small sounds of exertion.

"What's it doing?" Butch asked.

"Eew, what's that smell?" Boomer cried. Brick took a deep whiff.

"Not it!" he said suddenly, zooming out of reach. Butch caught on a second later, cackling.

"Aw, come on, guys, don't leave me!" Boomer wailed. "What do I do?"

"Well, what do you do when you make a stinky?" Brick yelled from the top of the dome. "Go wipe the thing's butt!"

"That's gross!" Boomer replied, leaning back from the baby. Its face was starting to crumple a little, its noises becoming fussier and fussier. "You're the smart one, Brick, you come do it!"

The baby sucked in a deep breath and screamed.

"What do I do?" Boomer repeated, talking over the baby's crying.

"Clean it up, stupid!" Butch shouted. "And make it stop crying before Him spanks us!"

Bottom lip puffed out, Boomer picked up the baby gingerly and transported it to the table, where he clumsily undid the diaper around the baby's waist. The smell became overpowering, and the baby's crying intensified.

"Aw, man, that's gross!" Boomer whined. "What do I clean it up with?"

On the table by the baby, where they'd first seen it, was a small bag that had a box of wet wipes and a stack of fresh diapers. Boomer studied these mechanisms for a moment, then went for the diapers.

"Don't do that, dum-bee, you gotta clean it off first!" Brick snapped, floating closer to the baby.

"Well if you're so smart, why don't you get down here and help me?" Boomer griped, sticking his tongue out. "I'm gonna do it my way!"

Brick sniffed impatiently, knocking his brother out of the way and reaching for the wet wipes. He grabbed the baby's ankle and lifted it up a little, closing his eyes, holding his breath, and swiping until he was sure the baby was clean.

"Now the diaper?" Boomer asked, unsticking one of the diapers and sliding it under the baby's butt as Brick rolled up the other mess and threw it away.

"Naw, naw, I saw this on TV once! You gotta put the white stuff on 'em first!" Butch called.

"What white stuff?" Brick retorted. "I don't see no white stuff!"

"This white stuff?" Boomer asked, holding up a salt shaker.

"No, this white stuff!" Butch announced, zooming down and holding up a container of baby powder. "You've just gotta put it in the diaper like—like—this—" he grunted, shaking the baby powder. Nothing came out. "Like—this!" he repeated, smacking the bottom of the container. A cloud of white powder enveloped all three boys, making them choke and cough; when it cleared it appeared to them that perfect amount was sprinkled on the baby.

"Now?" Boomer asked.

"Now," Brick nodded, stepping aside and letting Boomer wrap up the diaper. He couldn't quite figure it out and ended up grabbing Mojo's duct tape from the lab and taping the diaper shut. The baby blinked and sneezed.

They looked at the baby for a little while, their hair and clothes dusted white, unsure of where to go at this point.

"_Pff_," he snorted, "let's just put it on the couch and play some video games or something. The baby laughed and clapped. Brick looked at it.

"_Pff_," he said again. The baby giggled. He looked a little pleased with himself as he kept repeating the noise, practically sending the baby into hysterics.

Butch poked it experimentally. The baby wriggled and giggled.

Boomer made a silly face. The baby smiled and made a gurgling noise.

This was quite the source of entertainment for a long time, each of the boys doing something funny, the baby laughing, until it yawned. The boys looked at each other.

Carefully Butch picked it up, cradling it clumsily against his shoulder as it yawned again.

"Someone sing a lullaby," Brick urged. "If we get it to sleep we can go do stuff again."

Boomer hummed a few bars of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" as the baby's eyes started to close. Butch experimentally bounced it gently. Brick accompanied Boomer's tune with the words.

In what felt like eternity the baby's eyes closed for good, snoring softly. Butch looked between the baby and his brothers. He floated to the couch and sat down carefully, afraid of waking it up. Boomer and Brick accompanied him, fascinated despite themselves at the baby's sleeping behavior. It twitched occasionally, curling and uncurling its little fists. Watching the baby made them a little sleepy, as well; Butch, doubly warm under the bodies of the baby and his brothers, drifted off first. Boomer and Brick soon followed.

Him came out some time later, saw his boys on the couch asleep with the baby, blinked, looked around to check if the coast was clear, and snapped a picture. Even evil parents wanted to document the special quiet moments of their offspring, he reasoned. Besides, this would look _so cute_ on the mantle.

* * *

A/N: I don't know. I was in the mood for the little Rowdyruffs to have their first encounter with a baby and some fluff. I have no regrets.

Review and stuff. Got some good ideas formulating, now that I've kicked this writer's block. :D


	42. Chapter 42

42. Standing Still

The moment Blossom realizes she isn't going to make it slows into a solid increment of time where everything moves in slow-motion. She's working her muscles to the breaking point, flying so hard she wouldn't be surprised if she ripped through the fabric of space and time (again), Mojo's gleeful grin sticking out toothily in her vision. The mechanical arm seems like a comet, on a set trajectory of destruction towards the one person in Townsville unfortunate enough to try and interrupt a fight to remind Bubbles she forgot her lunchbox.

Even with Chemical X and super speed and all the hoping and praying her body can summon, and for all her brains and books, Blossom can't change physics. She's too far away, too slow, still not enough. Never enough.

The Professor sees it coming too late, turning to face incoming doom with all the agonizing slowness of normal humanity. Blossom's eyes are so narrow she has to hold back the lasers itching for release; if she severed the arm now it could completely crush the Professor, or she could melt him by accident. The sweat on her brow pops and evaporates as she coaxes just a little more speed out of her body, a deadening heaviness already setting into her legs as she expends too much Chemical X.

Still not enough. Never enough.

The steel fist connects with the Professor's aging body and tosses it, spinning into the air and throwing the blue plastic box in his hand to scatter over the street, crushing the lovingly-trimmed sandwich and note of encouragement to his youngest daughter into the asphalt. Even with her body burning energy faster than it can make it, Blossom grits her teeth to go faster, to catch him before he hits the ground or a building. She's so focused on her father that when Mojo's robotic fist comes back she never sees it coming.

She digs a furrow into the street so deep it's a miracle she doesn't hit a gas line, a good quarter of a mile long. She lies there for a second, letting the overwhelming sensation of notgoodenoughnevergoodenough suffocate her. Then she hauls herself to her feet, shakes out the gravel from her hair, and straightens her bow. In her desperation it seems she forgot she has superpowered sisters who are also as aware and loving of the Professor as she is; Buttercup is setting him farther down the street and telling him to stay put if he won't go. There's a body-sized bruise darkening the Professor's left side, and his nose and lip are both a little bloody, but other than being shaken he looks physically fine. Bubbles is going to town on Mojo's robotic body, screaming as loudly as she can in an effort to break the glass bubble letting the malicious monkey view his nemeses.

Blossom can't bring herself to pay attention to Mojo's ramblings today, because he hit her dad and made her feel weak and worthless. The anger sends a shot of adrenaline and a fresh wave of power coursing through her limbs. She leaves a pink-hot stream of energy behind her as she flies, straight as a torpedo, for Mojo's robot's chassis, the air sizzling around her.

She's really going to let him have it this time.

* * *

A/N: Hola! I live! :D Soooo, I've been kicking around ideas for this one for a while and then this just popped up out of the blue. What are the odds. Also, I hope to update more frequently; Greens fans, next update have your feels ready to hang onto, because I think it's going to be a heartbreaker. I'll do my best with it.

Review and tell me what you think (and also a mention of how much you missed me wouldn't be amiss. ;D I'm kidding. Don't you dare. I'm sure you did fine without me).


	43. Chapter 43

43. Dying

It's stopped snowing by the time the fight ends.

Buttercup lays there, hurting, her body too tired to heal the punctured lung and the wad of internal bleeding gathering in her abdomen. She coughs and out spurts some of that necessary fluid. Away from her, touching feet to feet almost, lies Butch, two holes laser-carved out of his sides, struggling to breathe along with her. Neither of them remembers a fight for survival quite that brutal. Neither of them remembers when survival became secondary to hurting and punching and causing as much pain as possible to the other.

It's cold, but the kind that's bone-deep and not caused by the weather. Buttercup stares at the white-sheet sky, feeling blood forcing its way up her gorge, feeling sharp kinks in her chest as her rib fragments lodge themselves nicely in her lung tissue. Breathing is agony, but a reflex, one she doesn't think about even as her broken body rips itself apart.

She doesn't realize Butch moved until his blood is slick on her arm and steaming in the snow beside her, harsh breathing matching hers beat for beat as he curls himself around her side, his good arm around her shoulders and his bad arm dangling from his shoulder socket. The blackened remnants of his torso aren't healing. She wonders, then realizes, then calmly knows, that this isn't one they're going to make it back from. Not without a miracle, and they both know they'd spent their last wishing penny long ago.

She tips on her side, then clings to his shirt, digging her nails into his chest a little, and his fingertips press with bruising, possessive strength into her forearm as his arm tightens like a coil around her. He's shivering as he twines his legs with hers, then presses dry, cracked lips to her forehead. She plants one in return on the bobbing skin of his throat.

A mutual cough rolls through him and exits her mouth, a dry cough on his part, sputtering on hers. Flecks of crimson against the snow. Sharp stabbing as the motion alone jabs another broken edge into her flesh. A superficial burning in her gut that would be crippling if she wasn't already frozen.

The pressure of his fingers against her skin never wanes, but she can feel when he's almost gone when a strange sound, almost like a dry sob, works its way out of his mouth. She shifts, just a little, and he moves accordingly to press forehead to forehead. One of his eyes has a burst vein, once more crimson against snow, interrupted by pools of deep green. There's peace there, so startling to her when she's used to seeing his eyes overcast and raging with the storms of his moods. It anchors her, somehow. If she'd felt any fear about how sleepy she suddenly felt, his eyes would've alleviated it.

He winces and grunts and shifts his head. Chapped lips rasping against hers. A final territorial bite on her lip just hard enough to draw blood, a cocky smile as she headbutts him and takes another kiss from him, smearing scarlet on his face.

Locked together as they are, she feels it as a rattling breeze when his breath leaves him, feels it rushing through her ravaged lungs and broken body, in every fiber of her being. Her heart gives a final, feeble attempt at creating life-giving blood, but there's no will behind it other than its own survival instinct. Her will died with the boy in her arms. She shoves her head under his chin, resolute that he's not going to leave her behind for long.

* * *

A/N: Hello, folks! I'm not dead! And I haven't forgotten about this project, I've just been busy. Please accept this as a token of my apology.

This is the start of another ministory, just FYI; the next two updates will be from the other pairs' perspectives. I do still fully intend to make it to one hundred, don't worry. :) Again, I'm sorry, and I hope this angsty feelswagon will suffice for the time being.

ALSO: It makes all the difference if you read this piece with Sia's "My Love" playing in the background plz and thank you. Also, if you happen to like this chapter, please review and let me know what you thought! Thanks!


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